The Buffalo Hide
by swasdiva
Summary: During a time of war, wagon trains, Indians and outlaws, something precious is vanishing in the American Old West. Sesshoumaru and Kagome are lost souls from two different worlds fighting to save it, and discover in each other the true meaning of home.
1. The Lucky One

Overly long first chapter author's note, ahoy:

I've always wanted to write an AU Inuyasha fic centered around the Wild West, so here's my take on it. This will be a crossover with a romance novel (yes... a romance novel) I own, well, _purchased_ named "Grey Eagle's Bride" by Jessica Wulf. Corny title, surprisingly good book, for the genre. Sesshoumaru's father and the Beaudine brothers are central characters to this novel, but I can guarantee you won't need to have read the book to understand what's going on.

I've tried to be respectful to the ethnic and emotional backgrounds of each character, but I must admit this all stems from a sheltered Kentucky girl's imagination, so if you have any cultural insight I'd love to hear it and incorporate it into the fic.

I've also tried to make this as historically accurate as possible (I'm an online research junkie), but alas, some things just have to be fudged for fiction's sake. But enough of my babble, on with the show!

And just an FYI: "Sess" doesn't show up until chapter 2. Please hang in until then!

Reviews are Prozac.

**Disclaimer:**

--Inuyasha thumbs through "Grey Eagle's Bride"-- "Hehe, you don't own this either, biotch!"

--swasdiva promptly thwacks him across the skull-- "You do realize you're reading a romance novel, right? Just wait till I get to my AU version of your character..." --cackles madly--

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**The Buffalo Hide**

Chapter 1 - The Lucky One

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_September, 1870_

The clucking women of Ft. Laramie, Wyoming had decided at first glance that Kagome Henderson's mother was lucky. She was married to a man who was not only an integral member of their thriving settlement, but didn't let a little thing like propriety prevent him from being tender with his wife in public. It was scandalously obvious the man was still smitten after 16 years, and despite the saccharine coos and squeals of feminine delight at his affections, their fawning hadn't any grace to tiptoe over their conspicuous jealousy. After all, wasn't she lucky to be a simple-minded Oriental so loved by a white man, especially one of Josiah Henderson's caliber? Wasn't she lucky to be coddled and cared for, no matter how inferior she was?

Oh, she was lucky indeed, but as Kagome eavesdropped on the tongue-wagging from her place across the Post Trader's Store, she was bitterly sure those shallow serpents would never understand why.

The few daguerreotype photographs her mother had brought with her across the sea were among the rarest in existence, both in the documented locale and that she had them in her possession at all. Kept hidden for reasons undisclosed, she arranged them like a secret shrine in the cedar chest Kagome's father made as a wedding gift. They were Kagome's only glimpse of her mother's homeland, the mysterious isle of half her heritage. Nothing in the smoky tones was as primitive as the town gossips assumed it should've been. The architecture, while sadly lacking the vibrant color her mother described, was winsome and bittersweet, weeping in the curve of its eaves and the smoothness of its pillars and screens with the quiet resolve of a lonely woman or a soldier returning home from war. The rigors of that land were more refined than anything Kagome had seen throughout the bourgeoning settlements of the American midwest. She never fathomed how people could be so ignorant about a culture so ancient and beautiful.

Several scrolls slept peacefully beside those precious, leather-cased photographs, brushed in loving strokes with characters Kagome had grown up speaking and writing with her mother and little brother, Souta. Her father chimed in when he could, but he'd long ago accepted with a sigh that he would never completely wrap his head around the complexity of his wife's native tongue. Still, when she told their children stories in the breezy mornings of great demons and magic jewels, he'd lounge behind them on their porch rocker with his wide-brimmed hat draped over his cornflower blue eyes and his scruffy chin dimpled in a smile.

_"Chirping"_, he'd called it, and in the beginning Kagome questioned with a great gust of indignation why her mother never took offense to that idea.

_"Papa!" She'd shouted, so incensed she was shaking. "How can you say that to us?"_

_The rocker stopped abruptly, groaning out a wild sound like a buffalo lost from its herd. Her Papa stared at her, slack-jawed. His smile shriveled amidst his cornhusk stubble, as if a drought sucked the mirth from his face. "What do you mean, Sunshine?"_

_"How can you be so mean?" She stomped her foot and cried rain, wanting his warmth to reach out for her instead of drying up in disgust. "How can you say we squawk like birds?"_

_"Huh?" His brows flew at odd angles. "I didn't say anything like that. Where did you hear that?"_

_As Kagome's face grew redder than the tomatoes in their garden, he glanced to his wife whose back was straight as she focused on the mending in her lap. Her only accusation whispered in the dance of her needle through his trousers. It was a sad and lonely sound, the quiet submission of a woman shunned, who knew that even though her family loved her the rest of their world never would. _

_"The women in town!" Kagome reminded him. "They say Mama squawks like a bird!"_

_A glut of clouds passed shadows over her father's face, dropping heavy buckets over his shoulders as he slouched in the rocker, and Kagome waited breathlessly while his gaze lingered on her mother. He swallowed thickly and turned back to her with a cistern emptying in his eyes. _

_"There are many different types of birds, Sunshine. What kind fly around town?"_

_"Pigeons and crows." She answered dutifully, quite confident in her knowledge._

_"What sound do they make?"_

_"They squawk." she spat. "Like the women said."_

_"And what flies around here?" He glanced around and nodded up at a tree far in the back of their property. "What nests in that tree right over there?"_

_"Eagles." She realized. "And wrens. I saw a meadowlark yesterday."_

_"Do those squawk?" _

_"No." She whispered, learning something new about her farm and her father, following him down the road of wonder. "They sing or whoop like a soldier does."_

_"So," he conceded, "When I say chirping, I mean the song we hear every morning, not the twittering of a few stupid hens who can't keep their opinions to themselves."_

_"Josiah," her mother lightly admonished. There was something subtle in her eyes that Kagome wouldn't recognize until she herself felt it many years later, that look of how it felt to have the man you love stand up for you. "That's not polite."_

_"When have I worried about that?" He smiled. "I just want our little Sunshine to know I don't call it chirping because it's noisy." He reached over and sweetly ruffled Kagome's wavy black hair. "Your words are music to my ears."_

After that spring morning almost 8 years ago, Kagome chirped for her father every opportunity she had. She gobbled up every lesson her mother taught, becoming fluent in their private language and distinguishing the animals she followed and people she knew with names befitting their countenance, names they would most blessedly never understand. She mumbled a choice few under her breath as the group of girls who'd made it plain she would _never_ be their equal giggled shrilly by the Post Trader's latest shipment of muslin patterns. There was a special bolt of blue-lavender, peony-dotted cloth Kagome had been eyeing and Martha Bithlow currently had her perfectly manicured claws all over it.

"Won't this look lovely on me?" she squawked, pulling the soft cloth from its bolt so boisterously it nearly ripped. Basking in the approving twitters from her mindless flock, she draped the material across her body, completely oblivious that its cool tones washed out her wheat blonde hair and windswept skin. "It's perfect for the barn dance next month."

"Of course!" Another girl gushed, not bothering with her own dance dress aspirations as everyone in the store knew Martha didn't care to share the stage. "Maybe Howard will ask you to dance!"

"What do you mean 'maybe'?" Martha hissed and sneered as her eyes slunk with the precision of a rifle scope across the store. "Who else would he ask? Ka-Go-Me?"

On cue, the attention of every store patron shifted to her, even that of the old widows bickering over preserves near the register. The mothers of those girls who said the same hateful things about her mother did nothing but smirk. Not even the Post Trader came to her defense, despite the sympathetic look he offered as he packed the many purchases of the wealthy Mrs. Bithlow.

Kagome could've said several things in retaliation, but the most satisfying and regrettably honest of those verbal slaps would never be believed by anyone present. It didn't help that her ammunition only flirted with her when they both knew no one would notice. She'd nicknamed Howard Crittenden "Hojo" because of a famous family in the ancient Sengoku Jidai era of Japan. The Hojo family was wealthy and important but weak, and ultimately fell to a rival clan who actually fought for what they wanted. Her Hojo was much like that. He wanted her, he'd made that remarkably clear under the dark new moon during the last barn dance, when his sweet words got a little too fresh, but he would never fight to win her. His family expected a handsome boy like him to end up with an acceptably polite and beautifully white trollop like Martha Bithlow. They would never approve of him marrying a half-breed of inferior pedigree like herself.

Which was fine with Kagome. She didn't really like Hojo that much anyway.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I forgot that little monkeys don't dance unless they're offered a banana!" Martha snickered behind her hand. She certainly had the talent to make a dainty gesture positively wicked, with the matching skill to make the most benign words cut to the bone.

But Kagome was a survivor. She'd built up enough scar tissue to be impervious to her insults. In fact, she kept a few of her own up her sleeve for just such a moment.

"Well, I'm sure you'd accept Howard's _'banana'_ any day, wouldn't you Martha?"

Dumbfounded, the hue of Martha's puckered face rose to match the cloth in her hands, her cheeks splotched with indignation. As Kagome sashayed over to the group of girls, the other store patrons watched breathlessly, stuck to the scene like a cow on train tracks. "Although, he may get confused and ask me to dance first, since we'll be wearing the same dress."

"What are you getting at?" Martha squinted her beady eyes.

Kagome purposefully invaded her space, barging through her nest of adoring followers to stroke the blue peony cloth. "I just bought a bolt of this two days ago, and my mother and I are almost done with the final touches. Now we'll match and Howard can swoon over us both!" She giggled shrilly and beamed the most obnoxious smile she could muster, the one she normally reserved for tormenting her baby brother.

Martha squealed and dropped the cloth like a rattlesnake, kicking it as it unraveled on the floor. "How vile! I wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything like you!" She snatched the next available bolt of material with a livid growl, a dusty rose that Kagome hated to admit would look good on her, and stomped up to the register.

As her fan club crowded around her, she whined to her mother for the best embellishments and accessories money could buy. With a flourish Mrs. Bithlow's shopping parcels were stuffed to the seams, ready to burst. Kagome watched, alone and forgotten in her flower-covered corner, as Martha's bags absorbed the faux pearl buttons and silk ribbons meant for her dream dress. She fingered the small, homemade buckskin money pouch she'd tied to her waist, weighing the meager rations she'd siphoned off of chores and odd jobs she did for the old widow who lived on the farm adjacent to hers. Her savings couldn't compare to the fortune the Bithlows could drop on a whim, but it had been enough to complete her dress, until now.

The Post Trader's bell jingled as the Bithlow parade exited and turned the corner, leaving Kagome stranded in a canyon of silence. The two old women who had lingered by the counter for the show hurriedly bought their preserves and left without any acknowledgment of her presence. Kagome was used to such treatment and took the snub in stride. She knew why they did it. A half-breed like her simply wasn't worth the effort.

With a quiet sigh, Kagome collected the blue cloth, wound it up with care and walked up the the counter without bothering to browse through the remaining ribbons and buttons. She felt frail and tired, and there was nothing else in store she could afford, so what was the point of looking? What was the point of trying when even the small things were ripped from her hands?

She sat the muslin bolt next to the register and fumbled for her coins without a glance to the Post Trader, Mr. Ward. A small rustling, or perhaps the lack of clanging keys on the register caught her attention and she looked up. Shimmering innocuously on top of her cloth was a small wooden spool of white ribbed, periwinkle ribbon. Two embossed paper cards each held two rows of small, oval, mother-of-pearl buttons. Both blended with her fabric like a stream through a meadow of wildflowers, with smooth, sun-bleached rocks lining its banks.

They were exactly what she'd wanted, and more beautiful than she could've ever hoped for.

Kagome looked at Mr. Ward with tears in her eyes. He smiled kindly and tallied up her total.

"I thought," Kagome cleared her throat, "that Martha bought all these."

"Your father was in here the other day." Mr. Ward said, his voice rustic and jovial like she'd always known it to be. He eyed her speculatively with one vaulted, bushy grey brow, and she realized he was quite aware of her little prank. "He told me which items you'd been mooning over, said you'd be in soon to pick 'em out, so I set some things aside. But somehow you bought that material two days ago although I haven't seen you in here all week."

She stiffened, feeling duly admonished. "I'm sorry. I know it was wrong to lie about buying the cloth."

He laughed and shook his head. "No harm done. Martha got what she wanted. New pretties and all the attention."

Kagome rolled her eyes. "Isn't that always the case?"

"Don't worry, girl," he shrugged. "You'll get your share at the dance. I'm sure of that."

There was sincerity in his words born of his longtime friendship with her father, and although they didn't surprise her, she was touched nonetheless. If it wasn't for the respect her father naturally garnered from everyone he met, Kagome knew her life would be a lot worse. At it was, most people, Martha obviously excluded, showed their distaste for her and her mother subtly, ignoring them like the old women with their preserves had, but there were a few like Mr. Ward who made an honest effort to be amicable and caring. Her mother had a few true friends, and so did she.

Kagome scooped her packages in her arms and nodded her thanks, solidly aware that people like Mr. Ward would never really know how much difference they made in her world, and how much courage they gave her to be herself.

The bell chimed behind her as she scanned the town square for her father's small wagon. She found it parked by the stately, white-washed building symbolic of Ft. Laramie, the officers' quarters otherwise known as _Old Bedlam_, which was odd because his main errand was to the blacksmith for some new tools and horseshoes. He and other local civilians had worked with the current military staff before on scouting missions, so perhaps he was just making a social call. Shrugging, she made her way across the parade grounds, juggling her packages as she bypassed running children and soldiers changing guard. She adjusted them so much that by the time she reached the wagon one was dangling precariously from her left armpit. She couldn't let it go without losing the whole bundle in a scattered heap.

"Drat," she cursed under her breath, "my clumsiness will be the end of me someday."

"Allow me to postpone a catastrophe."

A white-gloved hand wrapped around her side, catching the loose package and drawing her close to a firm body all in one effortless movement. Kagome blinked down at the dark blue embroidered cuff, its finely woven, monogrammed material starched to perfection, and trampled the sickening shiver curdling in her gut.

"Good afternoon, Captain Flannery." She said politely, cringing behind her purchases, "I appreciate your help."

"My pleasure, Ms. Henderson," his voice dipped into a tone she knew seduced many women and girls, but Kagome had always found it rather unpleasant, "though I'm not sure how many times I'll have to remind you to call me Nathan."

"I'm sure I'll remember one of these days." She chuckled uncomfortably. Really, where was her father when she needed him? Or Hojo even? Hell, she'd take Martha if it meant to divert this man's attention away from her.

Without another word he picked the packages from her arms one by one, arranging them in neat, orderly piles in the back of her father's tiny wagon. One by one he breeched Kagome's defenses and left her open for his sly maneuvers. Many times she swore she could hear a slight _'or else'_ lingering after his gentlemanly flirtations. She really had no idea why nearly every girl in Ft. Laramie swooned at the sight of him.

Alright, so she wasn't _that_ blind. Standing proud at over 6 feet tall, Capt. Nathan Flannery was born to wear the striking, fitted lines and masculine enhancements of the United States military uniform. The bold blue cut accentuated broad shoulders, a strong jaw and wavy, shoulder length black hair than any woman would die to have or touch. The hardened beauty of his features was almost ridiculously perfect, if she thought on it long enough, but in her honest opinion his imperious attitude trumped his good looks. The man knew he was gorgeous and admired, and used that power to his every advantage, no matter who suffered in his place. It was a despicable trait that Kagome simply could not overlook.

She'd tried to come up with a name for him, but nothing ever seemed to fit. Some where too forgiving while others seemed inordinately judgmental. It almost disturbed her more that everyone else found a name in her book, whether she liked them or not, but he slipped out of her classification like a spider down its web.

Kagome breathed a sigh of relief when her father swung open the front door of the officers' quarters, bounding down the steps to help Capt. Flannery secure the last of her packages. The young man looked less than pleased with the invasion, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

"Capt. Flannery," her father donned his hat and tipped it in the captain's direction, "Thank you for keeping my daughter company while I finished up inside."

"Glad I could be of service, Mr. Henderson." He bowed curtly. "If you'll excuse me, I have some of my own work to finish." With one last heated look in her direction, he turned up the stairs and shut the door soundly behind him.

"Ugh," Kagome groaned, "can we go now?"

Josiah Henderson cast a dubious glance at his daughter's lack of manners. "Are we not too keen on the captain's attentions?"

Kagome climbed into the wagon with an exaggerated huff. "More like sick to death of them. He's just so...so..."

"Promiscuous?"

"Yes!" She shrieked, then whirled on her father with a disbelieving stare. "Did you just call a captain promiscuous?"

"Well," Josiah cleared his throat slightly, "I'm sure you're aware of his reputation, and you're 15 now, old enough to know what that reputation means. I'm rather glad you don't follow behind him like all the other ladies in town."

"Ladies." Kagome snorted. "Right."

Josiah sighed gruffly. "That's what we call them in public, Sunshine. Best to be nice when you have to."

Kagome shrugged off her father's half-hearted reprimand and watched the prairie lope by with unfocused eyes. It never ceased to amaze her how several prized young men in the Ft. Laramie community found it necessary to woo her in secret. Did they expect her to wilt at their affections because she was starved for love? Did they honestly think because she was publicly maligned and had little chance of marrying well that she'd capitulate to their advances? She may be veritably alone, but she'd been raised to respect herself, and she had a family that loved her. That was more than many had. It was more than enough for her.

At least, she tried to tell herself that. As their wagon creaked and rocked along the windy dirt path leading northwest out of Ft. Laramie proper and into the farming territory, through sparse woodland groves with honey and apple skin leaves and the shallow creeks that wandered away from the North Platte River, Kagome felt the isolation sink in. Granted, she was still young to be concerned with marriage, but without any prospects she'd become a burden on her family. She knew all her parents wanted for her was to be protected and loved, but her only options were used and abused. It was hard to carry on with the knowledge that she'd let them down, that she'd fail them simply because of who she was and who she could never be.

She'd never truly be accepted, and despite her stubborn optimism, it hurt. The sky above was clear and sunny, but Kagome was sure her future was bleak.

"I smell dinner cooking," her father said softly, drawing the reins in to slow the horses. It wasn't until he hopped off to gather her packages that Kagome realized the entire trip home had gone by without her saying a word.

The front door swung open, braying like a mule when Souta galloped down the porch steps to greet them.

"Papa!" he shouted, hopping around excitedly. "Whadja bring me?"

Kagome took the distraction to redirect her melancholy. Such feelings always made her itchy and irritated anyway, and there was no better remedy to soothe a wound so deep and invisible as picking on her _angelic_ little brother. "Sweet Lord, Souta, you are the single most spoiled kid I know."

"Shut yer pan, would ya?" he barked and rummaged through the wagon, pouting when his exploits turned up empty. "Kuso! Ain't nothin' here!"

"I could'a told you that, kisama!"

"Kusu o taberu na! It's your crap that took up all the space!"

Hands fisted, Kagome growled. "Urusai, Kono Bakayaro!"

"Urusai yourself, you baka...busu...inoshishi!"

Josiah shouted as they ran into the house, "Hey! HEY! Watch your mouths! I know what _that_ means." He followed them inside, muttering under his breath. "Been called it enough times to figure it out."

Dinner was a quite time of somber introspection, at least for one occupant at the table. The remaining three were left to deal with the residual tension emanating from the oblivious girl scooting her mother's famous chicken dumplings and stewed vegetables around her plate with uncharacteristic disinterest. Josiah and Haruka exchanged worried glances while Souta contemplated the best way to get his sister out of whatever pity pit she'd dug for herself. Either carrots flicked in the hair or soggy dumpling dough knocked in her lap. Let it never be said that Souta did not care about his big sister's wellbeing.

He kicked his feet impatiently under the table when everyone but Kagome finished and his father made no move to disband them. He tried to ask politely to be excused but Josiah shot him a warning look, for what reason he had no clue. Finally, with a soft sigh, Haruka stood to tidy up.

"Kagome," she said, "Would you please help me with dishes?"

"I can help, too!" Souta shouted, fidgeting with curiosity to find out what had crawled up his sister's bloomers.

"Souta," Josiah said sternly, "I'll need you out in the stables. We've got some tools to put away."

"Aww," he whined, "but I wanna - "

"Souta." Josiah shot him the trademark "don't argue with me" glare.

Defeated, the boy kicked an imaginary rock and mumbled a dejected "Yessir" before scooting out of his seat to follow his father outside. Once they were alone, Haruka piled the plates and utensils at the head of the table and then sat back down, patting Souta's vacant seat beside her.

"Let's talk for a minute before getting to work, ne?"

"Daijoubu, Mama. We can clean up first." Kagome replied, standing and reaching for the dishes, but a hand that somehow remained soft despite years of hard work covered hers, stilling her escapist tendencies and making her face her problems with a silent support that always put things into a better perspective.

"I am not quite in the mood for strenuous work yet, so would you mind just sharing a quiet moment with your mother?"

Kagome nodded and sat down next to her, needing the reprieve. Unable to find any useful words, she busied her hands with refilling the oil lamp that decorated the center of the table. Its light leapt up to feast on the fresh oil, swimming like a school of hungry tadpoles and illuminating the wreath of dried irises her mother saved from every spring season. The fresh blooms were perennial gifts from Mrs. Butler, a kind, plump woman living with her large family over the hill behind their property. The woman had attached herself to Haruka when the Hendersons first pitched their cabin in the months before Kagome was born, and they'd been each other's closest friend ever since. The thought of her and her daughter, Amy, Kagome's own dear friend, awoke Kagome to the foolishness of her self-pity. She resolved to be more considerate of her mother's concern.

"Did you find everything you need for your dress?"

"Yeah." She nodded and absently picked at a splinter on the table.

Her mother tried to coax her a second time, leaning slightly closer and tipping her head beseechingly. "Did you have a good day shopping?"

Haruka's heart fluttered with worry when she noticed the oil lamp flicker through the sheen in her daughter's eyes. Kagome's face scrunched up in battle formations, desperately trying to block the threat of tears.

In the silence of their well-worn pain, the crickets chirped outside, playing sympathetic songs on their little shamisen legs. Haruka could feel the weight of guilt settle heavily inside her, and if there was ever a time she regretted following Josiah out of Japan it was because of the hardships she'd bequeathed to her children. It wasn't fair that so many supposedly cultured people dismissed their worth, regardless of how many times they proved it otherwise. They didn't deserve to be ostracized for a heritage they didn't choose. Her babies were beautifully blameless.

Such regret was transient, though, and frankly made Haruka furious with herself. Her children were the perfect culmination of the love she shared with her husband, no matter than no one apart from their small family and few friends were wise enough to notice, and they were her blessings from the Kami for being brave and following her heart. Despite the hardship of times like these, Haruka couldn't conceive of the griefs they would've endured if she had given birth in Japan, provided her family allowed her to keep her children at all.

She shook her head clear of the troubling thought and made a decision.

It was time Kagome realized just how precious life could be.

"Kagome," Haruka ventured, soothing her girl with an arm around her shoulder, "It seems to me that your day was not as easy as you hoped it would be."

Kagome shrugged noncommittally.

"I'm sorry to that you have to endure treatment from stingy, black-hearted people, but I can't apologize for bringing you into this world and raising you in America. I know life would have been just as hard had you been my daughter in Japan."

Kagome looked at her questionably, "You think so?"

A ghost passed over her mother's face, and she didn't have to reply for Kagome to be sure of her conviction. She turned to stare through the lamplight and into the past, and Kagome sunk into her mother's tightening embrace.

"Did I ever tell you how I met your father?"

"A little bit, a few times." Kagome murmured and laid her head in the crook of her mother's neck, imbibing the sweet scent of flour and honey.

"But not enough." Haruka ran her hand wistfully over the dried iris petals. "Not with the details you should know. You're old enough now, I think." She settled deeper in her chair and adjusted her blue knit shawl to cover both their shoulders, getting comfortable for what Kagome was sure would be a long, treasured story. She spun her words with the lilt of a bedtime folktale, slipping in an out of english and japanese, belying their painful reality.

"My father was 60 when my mother and brother died from a small cholera epidemic, and by that point he was too sick and despondent to find another wife to take care of him. As the only remaining child, the responsibility fell to me. I had come down with a mild version of the illness and recovered quickly, just in time to bury my mother and brother and organize the home duties from the mess they'd become in my mother's absence. I was never allowed to touch the finances and family records, though. It wasn't that your grandfather was harsh with me, it was just tradition for such important documents to be handled by the eldest capable male of the house.

"With my father indisposed, my cousin Hisoka assumed those rights. He made sure to have every problem fixed, every loan and service paid for, every loose end arranged to his liking. I was there, bathing my father when Hisoka promised that upon my father's death, all his assets, including me, would be properly taken care of, but my father's main flaws were his lack of critical thought and his failure to follow through. He took Hisoka at his word, and because I was so overwhelmed with work that had previously been split up between four people, I fell into the same trap and let the subject slide.

"Hisoka's main flaw was his arrogance, but I can't say I regret he had it. He believed too much in his own infallibility and made mistakes because of that. It so happened that one night after a bit too much Sake he made an...inappropriate advance toward me, but I wasn't in the mind to submit to him," livid fire leapt in her eyes, "In his anger he made it clear how he meant to make sure I was 'taken care of'. It seemed there were debts my father didn't have the money to settle. Selling me to a house in the pleasure district would barely be enough to pay the bill."

Kagome's head pounded with the glimpses she'd caught of the run down brothel on the outskirts of the fort. Despite that the army would never financially support a whorehouse within its tax-sponsored walls, soldiers of all ranks were its most frequent customers. There were a few times she and her father had been late leaving the village on their errands and she'd heard screams and breaking glass muffled by drunken songs and the out-of-tune piano, the displaced aggression of hunting dogs trapped in a cage. Their hypocrisy left a sour taste in her mouth, and the thought of her mother being trapped in such degradation made her want to retch.

"But he could do it, I knew. Hisoka may have been stupid sometimes, but he never made idle threats. He was just waiting for my father to die.

"It was the next afternoon, when I wandered the streets of Yokohama intent to buy supplies but dreading to return to a home that had become a prison, that the Black Ships of the United States fleet forced its way into the port of Edo Bay.

"The townspeople were reeling with curiosity, gathering in clusters and clogging the narrow streets to catch a glimpse of the sea monsters with their fire-breathing snouts. We must've looked as small and indistinct as rice grains to the men on those ships.

"They would've frightened me had my mind been clear, but I only paid them a passing thought. As I slipped in between the streets with no real goal in mind, the ships had docked and the U.S. leaders had made contact. Some local officials were allowed aboard the ships to begin formal relations, and a handful of American soldiers took the opportunity to meander through the streets closeby. I could hear the tumult as most were surrounded by excited crowds picking at the men like they were mythical demons, and I suppose to many that's what they would've looked like.

"It's certainly what I thought when I first saw your father.

"We had turned a corner at the same time and collided, my sight on the ground and his spinning every which way, trying to ingest an alien world. It hurt, and I was so upset I made my distress very clear, yelling without realizing who I spoke to. I called him several insulting things and a small part of me wondered why I hadn't been backhanded. Regretting my temper, I finally looked up, and he rendered me speechless.

"I had never seen a man like him. Eyes like the ocean below my vanishing home. Hair the color of the sand at low tide that I used to squish between my toes. I called him _'kitsune-sama'_, because the fairytales always said they appeared as beautiful humans, but then he smiled, his teeth white and full, and he became so handsome I thought he was a kami. He apologized in gibberish, his voice deep and lyrical like a nonsensical song that soothed me just by its melody."

Haruka sighed nostalgically. "I was done for. I was his."

"He realized belatedly that I couldn't understand him, and his lightly freckled, ruddy skin flushed an even darker hue as he chuckled awkwardly and rubbed his hand through his wavy hair. When he stopped and cleared his throat I finally realized I was staring. I couldn't help it. I started giggling, too, and he joined in, much more at ease.

"I bowed my thanks with a simple "gomenasai", intending to leave but my feet wouldn't let me. He stared at me softly a moment and then repeated, very delicately, what I said. I nodded and said "arigato". He repeated that, too. Neither of us seemed to want to move.

"He broke the moment with a helpless look around the street, motioning sheepishly that he was lost. How could I do anything but take pity on such a puppy face? I bowed with a small smile and turned around, glancing over my shoulder to signal him to follow me. I certainly didn't want to go home, and I assumed he'd want to avoid the attention. With the commotion down at port I guessed the Iseyama shrine would be nearly empty. It was such a beautiful, important place for my people, I thought, what better way to welcome him?

"It took us awhile to get there walking, but we spent the time in companionable silence. I'd sneak glances at him and he'd catch me, making me blush horribly when he chuckled. Occasionally he'd point at signs or objects with a questioning raise to his brow, and I'd pronounce the name carefully so he could mimic me. It was a fun game and it charmed me that he coaxed my attentions so gently.

"When we arrived at the shrine my guess was correct; it was ours to share. He was amazed there was so much space to walk, how well-tended the gardens were, and how many buildings made up the compound. I ended the tour under a sakura grove. Although it was well into summer, I imagined the trees in full bloom and compared that vision to my time with him, blessed, beautiful and brief. I wondered how he'd look with pink petals coating his hair and uniform. It made me laugh out loud, and he joined me without question.

"The sound of his voice broke a dam inside me, and without a thought fond memories of my family came rushing out. I was babbling so much, but I just couldn't stop! His presence felt so familiar and safe I could believe he'd been there during such memories, that we could reminisce together.

"He listened patiently as I gestured funny moments and sighed about quiet times. Never once did I bring up my family's recent misfortune. I didn't want to cry in front of him and ruin everything.

"I was so engrossed in my prattle that I didn't notice the clouds gathering overhead. The sudden rain startled us both and I squealed loudly. He grabbed my hand and lead me under an awning of a small shrine. It was a narrow cover and he swept me in his arms with his back facing the storm, shielding me from the wind.

"I had never really had the opportunity to mourn my mother and brother, nor the prospect of my father's imminent death. My mind had been blank for so long that when his arms came around me I felt as if he'd channeled lightning down my spine, sparking a fire inside me and burning down my defenses. My grief exploded in great sobs, and I could feel him tense for several minutes before he pulled me close and tucked my head securely under his chin. He didn't shy away and I cried until the rain stopped, as if nature itself sympathized with my grief.

"When I gathered my wits and saw the clouds part, I gasped at my stupidity, afraid he'd leave. Instead, he titled my chin up with his fingers and held my gaze, imploring me to believe whatever he was about to say. It was a short statement, but he whispered it so tenderly that it broke my heart and infused me with joy I was sure I'd never feel again. My grief seemed to flow out of me then, and his care replaced it with a strength I never thought I'd possess. I knew then I could stand stand up to Hisoka. I'd be there for my father. I'd make it. I'd be alright.

"A whistle blew shrilly and I cried, throwing my hands over my ears. It vibrated through the trees and even the shojis rattled. I didn't know my eyes had shut until I felt his hand caress my cheek. Blinking, I glanced up. He looked so forlorn that my heart instantly translated the meaning of that harsh sound.

"He was leaving me.

"He whispered something else unintelligible, at least in words. The sentiment was clear, and grasping his hand that hadn't left my face, I nodded my understanding. His image blurred in my vision, and then his thumb sailed across my skin, wiping tears away. He pointed to his heart and paused.

"_'Josiah,' _he said. He flattened his hand and stressed again. _'Josiah.'_

"As if I'd been deaf and healed in a second, I knew what he meant, what treasure he was giving me. My hand closed over my own heart, because I knew that's where he'd stay._ 'Haruka,' _I whispered.

"He repeated my name softly. We giggled in a private joke and stared at each other through many lifetimes, one of his hands on my face and the other threaded with mine.

"The beast's whistle howled again and he snapped to attention, bowing once, repeating "gomenasai" and "arigato" without knowing what they meant, and dashed out from under the shrine's awning. As I watched him disappear down the path and through the gate, a paper fell from his pocket. I ran and picked it up, already endeared to the strange lettering. A crowd so large I couldn't count them gathered to watch the formal proceedings end and the Black Ships depart. I bypassed the crowd and climbed a wooded ridge that was a secret hideaway in my childhood to watch the ships leave harbor, and I saw the name of the ships creep by, etched with the same letters as the name on the paper. I glanced between them and found a match sail closer to me than all the other ships. The _Saratoga. _I did not know how it sounded then, how beautifully the letters moved in my mouth, but I recognized the image and held on to it like a prayer charm. I folded the paper delicately and slipped it deep within my kimono, right next to my skin to keep it close to me. I knew your father was on that ship. I vowed that I'd wait for him to return, no matter that I wasn't even sure he would.

"A little after seven months passed my father finally succumbed to his suffering, dying in the middle of a blizzard. My family planned as best we could in the weather, but few people could come, so services were extended until the ground thawed and he could be buried. I handled most of the funeral preparations, but my heart was frozen in denial that he was gone. I feared the snow melting, because I knew I'd sink into the ground along with it, along with my father. I couldn't watch the icicles drip because I knew my eyes would follow suit, and I would crumble. Hisoka had no discretion for my sorrow, and no patience, as he pulled me into a dark hallway one night after all the relatives had left, far away from the lanterns we'd rationed for the storm and kept in the main hall to honor my father. He hit me a few times but not enough to bruise his 'wares' and told me that once 'the old dog' was cold in the ground my family's home was as good as his. He'd already made arrangements with a particular brothel and someone would be coming for me as soon as he sent word. He knew I wouldn't run away because of my duty to my father, but he never paid attention to the traits inside me that my father had loved the most, nor the courage I guarded from my time with Josiah. I was not a simpering flower, and after Hisoka's final strike I made up my mind to escape. I promised my father I'd stay to see him honored properly, but then I begged his help to find a way out of my miserable fate.

"Less than a week after my father's funeral my prayers were answered. The Black Ships returned to Yokohama. On the whisper of intuition I ran opposite the crowds for our shrine, hoping that the normal patrons would be gone in favor of the rare distraction. The Kami were with me that day, because the ships had emptied their crews by the time I got there, and your father was waiting underneath the Toori gate.

"Time slowed to a crawl as he turned to me, and the snow receded without my fear of it, the sun shining in his smile as if he'd charmed Amaterasu from her cave himself. I stopped a fair distance away, trying to catch my breath and dry my sudden tears. They came over me so quickly I could barely see which way to run! But I did, straight into his arms.

"He hugged me close, laughing against my hair and then handed me a note. Curious, I read it aloud, not thinking of our language barrier although he just stood by and listened. It was short and the characters were rudimentary, but it had obviously been written by a native speaker. I was in awe of the effort he must've gone through to procure it." Haruka drifted into an absent silence, contemplating her memories.

"Mama!" Kagome shook her mother's arm, enthralled, "What did it say?"

Her mother blushed lightly and smiled. "It said, _'I'll be here long enough to watch the cherry trees blossom. I hope you'll accompany me.'_"

Kagome gushed and snuggled in her mother's embrace. "Who knew papa could be so romantic?"

"Such a silly question, Kagome-chan." Haruka tweaked her daughter's nose. "Your father is always romantic."

With an impatient but adorable whine, Kagome urged her mother to continue.

"It was about mid-February when he'd arrived, and just past the Sakura festivals in early April when he was scheduled to leave. In that time he visited me every chance he had, giving me a makeshift schedule, again in perfect japanese, on our second day together. I still wondered how he'd written the letters, but I didn't know how to ask him. Also, I didn't want to waste our time with such fruitless questions. As his days waned and his departure crept closer, my heart nearly burst with trepidation. I'd stalled as much as I could to keep the brothel from coming for me, and my options were dwindling. A few of our times together were near the port where he could show me the workings of his ships from a secluded spot, and the more he showed me the more I formed a reckless, ludicrous idea. It was desperate plan, but my only chance at freedom.

"He showed me how the bulkier Japanese gifts were loaded onboard at dusk in large crates. A final shipment was due to load the evening before departure. Hisoka had scheduled the brothel to get me at the end of that week, so I knew my life hinged on one risk. I could cower in fear of being caught and killed, as it was illegal to leave Japan in those days, or I could die a slow death at the hands of countless men, losing any honor I had. Your father's face flashed in my mind and just like that the choice was clear.

"It took me all day and night and many close calls, but I did it. I snuck on board the _Saratoga_ and hid in storage.

"I barely restrained my squeak when the ship jerked as the anchor was pulled up. I would've held my breath forever if I could. Every move I made sounded like the rumble of Mt. Fuji in my ears, and I was sure someone would find me before the ships set sail, handing me over to the Japanese authorities and my death. I didn't want to die, not before seeing your father one last time. I prayed fervently for that one wish.

"Luckily, it was your father that found me. My stomach growled on the third day at sea. The fleet was skimming the Japanese coast on its way to survey other ports and because the soldiers ate what delicacies the Japanese offered there was rarely anyone down in storage. I had no way to smuggle food from open sacks because they weren't touched, and I hardly dared to leave my spot and search for some, but as their gifts depleted a soldier was sent below deck to check the rations. I watched a nameless shadow stretch ominously along the floor, and in my fear I tripped over a stray bucket and knocked a few things over. The shadow stopped and a stern voice called out.

"Terrified, I knew I could do nothing but reveal myself. I wasn't aware the ship was going to dock again, so I figured once at sea they couldn't just throw me overboard. It was a gamble, but it gave me courage. I stumbled out with a humble bow, keeping my eyes on the floor and seeking mercy with my gestures.

"When warm arms enveloped me, I realized I didn't need to. I was already safe.

"In a flurry your father questioned me, scolded me, and I could tell he was aghast, wondering if I was insane to take such a risk. Before I could reassure him he beckoned me to a dark corner and knelt down. He wanted me to hide again. I did as told and he bounded out of the room. I waited for what seemed like eternity until he returned followed by another set of feet. I tiptoed out and the other man, dressed sharply in the regalia of his rank, gasped in indignation. It was the commander of the _Saratoga_ himself, Commander Walker. I was lucky Josiah had ingratiated himself with all the commanding officers, because when he found me on board he took it upon himself to face Commander Walker directly and ask for my protection. It was completely coincidence that he found me that day. He'd switched rounds with another officer.

"Later, we docked in the southern city of Shimoda where the American generals met with local leaders and townspeople to exchange oddities and get to know one another. A well-known Japanese man tried to board one of the Black Ships but he was refused and imprisoned by the Japanese government. The incident was such a spectacle that it rattled your father's officer and he sent for their interpreter, Sampachi, who happened to be a Japanese castaway employed by the American government. I knew then who had helped your father write his letters, and I immediately trusted him. Together they confronted your father and me with a strategy to keep my situation from public knowledge. When they set sail for Taiwan the Commander made special arrangements to have us swiftly returned to America in order to avoid a possible war, leaving the rest of the fleet behind. We spent 5 months at sea getting to know each other through Sampachi's kind help, and between him and your father I learned enough english to speak on my own. It opened the gate to a new world for us, because I could finally put into words the love I'd known before I even heard his name. Near the end of our journey I asked him what he said to me that day under the shrine awning, after I rambled and sobbed on a man who was a stranger to my language. He whispered shyly, _'I said your voice sounded like a song, and I wished I could've understood it.'_

"_'But you did,' _I told him, _'because I'm here with you. Because you gave me a new life.'_ "

Haruka paused for a long moment, the keepsake memories enshrined on her face. Although she hardly looked old, the petals of her years peeled away, blooming with a vision of her youth and her strength. Kagome could plainly see what her father had fallen in love with, and what she yearned for within herself.

"Your father put himself in great danger for me. He kept me the greatest secret in my country's history, and with the help of his commander explained my presence as a Japanese castaway. My life would've been over if not for him, and I love him more today than even that moment I knew he'd saved me. I will not pretend our life is not difficult, Kagome, and lonely many days, but it is much worse to suffer hell alone than with just one person you love. I can endure any ridicule with him by my side. I truly am the luckiest woman in the world."

She settled such a powerful, unshakeable look upon her daughter, her face aglow with something so much more beautiful than the soft lamplight, that Kagome swore she felt the sublime rapture of her life's entirety pass in the blink of an eye.

"My dearest daughter," Haruka squeezed Kagome's hand, "I know in my heart someday you will be, too."

Her own heart flooding like a summer river, Kagome could only nod and surrender herself to her mother's boundless faith. More than any other moment of her life, she pitied those women in Ft. Laramie who snidely called Haruka Henderson lucky, because they'd never had to walk the hard road of hope and could not appreciate its happiness.

Kagome later regretted that she might never have her mother's luck either, especially in the terrifying moment when, surrounded by a Lakota war party, she thought her own life was lost.

--

--

--

Hisoka: (proper name) reserved, reticent

Haruka: (proper name) fragrant spring - or - far off, distant

While we're at it, Josiah: (proper name) God will save - or - fire of the Lord

Thank you for the extensive list of phrases Kagome and Souta really shouldn't know.

Kuso: shit

Kusu o taberu na!: Eat Fucking Shit

Urusai, Kono Bakayaro: Shut up you noisy idiot!

Busu: extremely ugly girl

Inoshishi: wild pig

Kisama: "Lord of the donkeys" (love this one)

--

--

I dedicate this mini-encyclopedia to **Hajnalmadar**, who gave me my first review. It was encouraging, detailed and lovely. Thank you!

**Daguerreotype** was the only form of photography used during the naval mission to Japan. There were daguerreotypes of Japanese women in Shimoda taken during this expedition, as well as some of the surrounding environment. I allude to Josiah procuring a few for Haruka in secret.  
/jsnc/virtualjapan/BSS/tour/tour10.htm

**Old Bedlam** is a real building in Ft. Laramie, one of the oldest and most recognizable and also where the bachelor officers kept their quarters.  
www.nps.gov/archive/fola/tour.htm  
www.nps.gov/archive/fola/bedlam.htm

**Mr. Ward** was the real Ft. Laramie Post Trader from 1857-1871.  
www.nps.gov/archive/fola/traders.htm

**Commodore Perry & The Black Ships** He may sound like the lead singer of a punk band in the London underground, but Commodore Perry was the leader of the American naval fleet that first opened relations between Japan and, well, America in 1853-54. He barged his way into Edo Bay on July 8, 1853, where he met local officials and demanded the Japanese government open commercial ports to American interests. They didn't land specifically in Yokohama at his point, actually a town a bit further south, but they did return to Yokohama 8 months later on February 13, 1854 to complete the treaty and formalize relations. Before that time Japan was strictly closed to outside influences, only allowing some Dutch and Chinese trade in smaller ports. Their policy was not to allow foreigners in and not to allow Japanese citizens out. If a Japanese person was discovered leaving they were imprisoned and executed, for real. Needless to say Haruka was taking a very big risk.  
en./wiki/MatthewC.Perry  
en./wiki/Yokohama

**The Iseyama shrine** in Yokohama was originally closer to Edo Bay during Haruka's time, but a few years later was moved further inland.  
/travel-guide/japan/yokohama/sightseeing-in-yokohama/iseyama-kotai-jingu-shrine-yokohama.html

**The Convention of Kanagawa** was signed on March 31, 1854, solidifying relations with the United States and Japan, and opening the ports of Shimoda and Hakodate for international trade. Conveniently enough, the Sakura Blossom festivals are also traditionally held around that time of the year.  
en./wiki/ConventionofKanagawa

**Commander Walker** was the real commander of the real _Saratoga_.

**The _Saratoga_** was a real sloop-of-war (small, quick naval vessel) used as part of the Black Ships fleet. It separated from the fleet after leaving Japan in 1854 so Commander Henry A. Adams, Commodore Perry's second in command and Commander Walker's superior, could expedite the signed treaty of Kanagawa to officials in Washington D.C. The remaining fleet returned to Taiwan. I'm making use of this event to legitimize his plan to return Josiah and Haruka to America without causing an international incident. Also, is it just me, or does it kick copious amounts of ass that a real life ship combines the names Sara and Toga? I love you, Serendipity.  
www.history.navy.mil/bios/perrymcsecnav.html#1853

**Yoshida Shoin** was a real person, actually from a distinguished family, who tried to board one of the Black Ships after they left Edo Bay and docked further south in Shimoda, one of the Japanese ports opened for international trade. He was imprisoned.  
en./wiki/YoshidaShoin

**Sampachi** was a real Japanese castaway who lived in California and was hired by the U.S. government to interpret during the 1853-54 mission. He was invited to stay in Japan but declined because he was afraid of what would happen if he did. He actually returned via a different ship, the U.S steam-frigate _Mississippi_, but hey, I put him where I need him.  
/jsnc/virtualjapan/BSS/tour/tour2.htm


	2. The Messenger

GOMEN NASAI!! Gomen, Gomen to all who have been waiting for an update...how long has it been now, 3 millennia?... I can't say anything but real life got in the way. Nothing bad or major, just a bunch of little things piling on top of each other.

This chapter is kinda long, but is that really a bad thing? I wanted Sess to show up here, and couldn't find a place I was happy to cut it without bumping him to chapter 3. Oh well! I'm the Peter Jackson of fanfic writing (I never know when to end a scene).

Disclaimer: I found out I'm actually Rumiko Takahashi's love child put up for adoption at birth, and am destined to inherit the rights to all her stuff when she kicks the bucket. Then I woke up. Oh yeah, same goes for "Grey Eagle's Bride".

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**Ch. 2 - The Messenger**

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"It will be chilly tonight, Kagome," her mother called from her watchful position over the kitchen fire. "Remember to take your white buffalo hide coat!"

Growling in adolescent agitation, Kagome resisted the urge to roll her eyes, no matter that her mother couldn't see. She truly loved her mother, but even with a sturdy command of the English language the woman often phrased things in a Japanese manner, with a windy string of literalism that took forever to get the point across. It was pleasant poetry on most occasions, but Kagome didn't need reminding that her cool weather coat was not the most fashionable barn dance accessory. It was gorgeous in its own right, she'd never begrudge her father that, but even as precious a birthday gift as it was, and as toasty as she felt snuggled in its softness, it was lamb's wool on a wolf according to her prissy clique of tormentors.

Really nothing more than a cloak, the pelt had a small, polished animal bone button fastened underneath her chin that formed a rudimentary hood. Apparently whomever originally obtained it was hesitant to sew it into any more snug of a shape, keeping its authenticity as something wild and primitive, almost to the point of being sacred. Every time she handled it too casually, Kagome felt a little ashamed.

She sighed, hating that she could succumb to embarrassment instead of appreciating her buffalo hide coat for the treasure it was. With renewed affection, she patted her hand across its plush length draped over her vanity chair. No one had any right to make fun of her father's gift. She shouldn't care if it was made of goosefeathers. It was special to her, and for no other reason, she should be proud to show it off.

Kagome took a determined breath, checked and double checked the curls in her hair and smoothed out her dress, then gathered her coat and skipped from her room, stopping by the kitchen to give her mother a quick, reassuring peck on the cheek and to steal one of the sweet rolls left over from lunch.

Her mother cut her a chastising glance. "I was saving those for your father and Mr. Beaudine."

Kagome instantly perked up. "One of the Beaudines is here?" she blurted around a mouth full of dough, spitting some crumbs in the process.

Huffing, her mother brandished a dishrag from thin air and attempted to wipe Kagome's lips clean off her face, or at least that's what it felt like. Kagome squirmed impatiently. "Mama! Stop it!"

"I would not have to do anything if you would eat like a lady." She retreated and snapped the towel over the drying peg. "But yes, Mr. Orion Beaudine is coming by to discuss some sort of scouting business with your father. I still have to check on the corn pones and he should be here any –"

Both women heard the front door snap open and two men clasp hands in hearty welcome.

"– minute." Haruka, ever the perfectionist when it came to hospitality, regardless if they were a stranger, an old friend or a firing squad, started running around the kitchen like a headless chicken. "Kuso! The sweet potatoes! Kagome-_chan_," she wheeled around with the pleading look no one in her family could ever decline, "would you please serve the stew and take it out to the table for me?"

"Alright," Kagome relented with a sigh, "but when Ayame gets here I have to go, okay?"

"Fine, fine," her mother shooed her off, "just as long as the men are fed I'm happy!"

Kagome poured and carried two cast iron bowls of steaming venison stew down the short hallway, trying her hardest not to trip in the wane light as the sun was beginning its descent, filtering its light at odd angles, and with winter approaching candles and oil lamps were rationed to the common areas.

She was always excited to see one of the Beaudines drop by for a visit. A little over a decade older than her father, both Orion and Joseph Beaudine and their families were the other handful of good people who readily accepted Haruka into Ft. Laramie life. In the months before she was born, Orion's wife Sarah had come by with Joseph's wife Annie Rose and the gregarious matriarch of the Beaudine clan, their stepmother Florence, bringing a dish of meal-fried chicken and biscuits to welcome the Hendersons home to their new farm. Josiah's military experience and the hunting skills instilled by his long-passed father had made him a perfect candidate for scouting missions around the fort, and being in such close association with the other notable local scouts, the Beaudine brothers, lead to a lasting friendship. Oftentimes Kagome couldn't help but notice how their goodnatured roughhousing, be it verbal or the silly, competitive posturing men were _supposed_ to grow out of, resembled a brotherhood of its own, with Josiah, being the baby, always eager to prove himself.

Although with the terrifying stories of Indian attacks filtering along the telegraph wires, she hoped her father's chance would never come to pass. Ruminating on such things didn't help her peace of mind as she pulled up short and hid against the darkened wall, concerned at the men's unusually tense, hushed exchange, their voices pitched like tents over something secret, protecting it as if even the shadows had ears.

"How many?" she heard her father whisper as the kitchen fire crackled in the background, his tone low and serious.

"Enough to put the Colonel on edge. There have been small skirmishes around the settlements far west of here, but for some reason they seem to be bleeding out this way. I can reluctantly understand the attacks deep in Kansas and further out the trails, but it's been a few years since raids have taken place near Ft. Laramie, Josiah. No one knows what to make of it."

"Orion. I ask you not to get angry with what I'm about to say." After a heavy pause, Josiah posed a cryptic question. "Your brother's band wouldn't do this, would they?"

"No," Orion snapped quickly, but without conviction, "although I wouldn't be so quick to blame them considering what's happened to his people since Diana died."

_Diana?_ Kagome blinked curiously, _Who's Diana?_

"I know," Josiah sighed deeply, "but you know more than I do that's hardly the popular opinion right now. If we want to have any affect on peace in this area we have to hold our piece till the time is right."

"You don't have to remind me," Orion ran his hand through his dark, peppery hair, "I want to keep _all_ our families safe."

Kagome's heart lurched. _What does he mean by that? What's wrong?_

"Me too." Josiah leaned over and put a firm hand on his shoulder. "I assure you."

Kagome didn't realize she was trembling until a drop of sizzling hot stew splattered on her hand. Hissing softly, she was just thankful it hadn't flown a few inches more, bleeding all over the sleeve of the beautiful, peony blue dance dress she and her mother had just finished sewing a week before. She shook herself out of her trance and turned the corner, plastering on a bright smile to shield her anxiety over their mysterious conversation. Setting the food down, she welcomed the men's eager thanks and initiated the obligate pleasantries.

"How does your family fare, Mr. Beaudine? Will Henry Jed and Hunter be at the dance?" Orion's son and nephew were a bit older than her, but with the Beaudine lineage it was impossible not to be smitten with their handsomeness and genteel personalities.

Orion's face turned grave. "I assume they're doing as well as could be. Hunter is already riding out with my brother's family to visit our relatives in St. Louis. Henry Jed, my wife and I will be joining them tomorrow morning." He sighed lightly. "My stepmother passed away recently."

"Oh, Mr. Beaudine, I didn't mean –"

He raised a hand, wearing an affectionate smile. "I understand. Your sentiments are appreciated. I was just telling your father here to watch things while I'm gone. He'll be the best scout on hand at Ft. Laramie until I get back."

She turned to her father, intent to agree, but with the grim cast to his eyes the words died in her mouth. He ignored them, staring broodingly into the oil lamp's flickering light until Haruka entered with the fresh corn pones, sweet rolls and steaming hot sweet potatoes. Shaking himself discreetly, he leveled his daughter with the most unsettling look she'd ever seen, his tight smile more resembling a frown with each passing second.

"Be careful tonight, okay Sunshine?" his voice was strangely pinched.

Kagome blushed at his use of her nickname with company present, but gave a confident nod despite the trepidation fluttering in her gut.

It seemed her father didn't want to let the subject drop. "Make sure you drive fast for the cavallard, and stick with them all the way. There's safety in numbers."

"I know, Papa," on impulse she ran over and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm always careful, aren't I?"

A bell rang outside and with a goodbye hug she scurried out to meet it, shrugging off her father's concern and smiling widely for the only female friend she'd ever made. Amy Butler, or Ayame as Kagome liked to call her in appreciation of her mother's beloved iris bouquets, was a shy, sweet redhead who was much prettier than the popular girls would have her believe. She was a spitfire in their youth, but had been slow to develop her charms and the constant teasing took its toll. Now that she was 17 and still small but curvy, she was oblivious to the boys who stared and the girls who scowled. Kagome knew her dear Ayame still thought herself the ugliest girl in town.

"Are you ready to do this?" Ayame asked, her voice somewhat shaky and not just because of the nippy air. Sitting pretty in a pink calico dress and wool coat atop the small covered wagon her family used for local travel, she waited for Kagome to board and then bucked the horses to a trot, adjusting the reins with nervous fingers.

"Nothing could stop me and nothing should stop you. You're an iris, not a wallflower."

"Hmph," she snorted softly, "Tell that to the Bithlow Bitches."

"We don't need to say anything. We'll dance with all the boys tonight and _show_ them."

"Damn straight!" came a rowdy tenor from under a back seat pile of wool blankets that Kagome had naturally assumed were devoid of stowaways. Suddenly the fear she felt at her father's words came charging back with a vengance. Reaching behind her with trembling hands and glowering at Ayame's ambiguous shrug, she snatched up the whole clod of blankets in one fell swoop.

"Holy Jehosephat!" Kagome squealed, "Jackson 'Jakotsu' Shinnick! What the hell do you think you're doing, scaring me to death like that?"

"Sorry, Kagome!" Ayame laughed. "I should've warned you he was comin'."

"Warned her?" Jak pouted. "What am I, some redskin war party?"

"You're some kinda party." Ayame snorted and giggled again, amusing herself immensely. "With you along we know the barn dance won't be boring."

"Like I said, damn straight."

Kagome couldn't help but smile despite herself, calming her nerves with a deep sigh as Ayame and Jakotsu bartered harmless insults with the enthusiasm and verbal dexterity of a pair of 5-year-olds. Straight was not a word Kagome often associated with her friend Jak, although she wasn't sure what else to call his uniqueness, if it even needed a label at all. No matter his preferences, the boy had a good heart and a wicked wit she quickly and absolutely adored. Although his stigma was kept a strict secret between the three of them, he knew what it was like to be the odd man out, so to speak. He'd been shy and somewhat of a loner until Kagome and Ayame came along and befriended him, but with that acceptance came a bond that stood strong against words and actions that were blatantly meant to hurt, those Kagome and sometimes Ayame endured for all to see.

As the wagon ride fell into an easy rhythm, Kagome thought back to the day Jak Shinnick showed up in Ft. Laramie square, and to time beyond that, meandering through the fields of idle memory. Scrawny, pasty, and with his eyes hidden under a wild thatch of black hair, Jak was the last boy Kagome ever expected to catch Ayame's eye. The girl had a thing for tall, dark and handsome, with the one divergence being a weakness for blue eyes, a staple she used as her most vocal excuse for ignoring Capt. Flannery's universal allure, at least where her mother's persistent inquisitiveness was concerned. She simply didn't have the heart to tell her mother the Captain gave her the creeps. She'd tried once, and her 4 sisters jumped all over her, convinced she was touched in the head. So blue eyes were added to her list of future husband requirements, and the more she had to remind her family of this the more she believed it herself. As it turned out, tall, dark and handsome wasn't swooned over nearly as much anymore, but every new blue-eyed soldier sent the redhead's heart fluttering off into the horizon. It prompted she and Kagome to develop a tradition of watching the soldiers train and pull formations on the Ft. Laramie parade grounds, at Ayame's behest, of course, although for a far more personal reason Kagome had acquiesced without a fight.

She'd been just shy of ten years old when the tall, beautiful Indian maiden had walked straight through the heart of town to sit silently and serenely on the little bench adjacent to the Post Trader's store. There were large Indian encampments that came close to Ft. Laramie in those days, at various seasons when it was easier for many Indian women and children to beg outside the fort gates for provisions. Many women, except the girl on that bench.

She had come for hours every day during the months her tribe was in the area to sit and observe, refusing any attempted handouts and rebutting insults with a proud glare. Her back was always straight and her hair brushed to a glassy sheen, its seamless plaits hanging to her waist like a pair of willow branches. Her coal black eyes were always an otherworldly combination of steel, sage confidence and soft intensity. She had so many names whispered amongst the fort locals that Kagome lost count. Little Leaf and Fleet Foot, according to garbled translations of her Lakota Sioux name. The Princess, to credit the most popular, which was modestly apropos since she was the daughter of the powerful Lakota Sioux chief Spotted Tail. Her real name was _Mni Akuwin_, but Kagome had a special name for her, an affectation that embodied the woman's stoic regality with a completeness no other name could match.

Because to Kagome, she became the very heart of strength, the vision of noblesse, a woman who carried herself with the grace and assurance of an ancient Japanese priestess in a pit of feral demons.

She was the Little Green Child, Midoriko, and she was everything Kagome wanted to be.

In a foreign place that made no qualms about asserting her inferiority, Midoriko sat upon that bench with like a queen upon her throne, and the image impressed itself like her mother's daguerreotypes in Kagome's mind. She'd been raised to be wary of Indians even during peacetime, especially the men, but Midoriko's bravery transcended Kagome's preconceived notions of what an Indian was like, until she completely forgot their differences and recognized her as _human_ and _woman_, and an admirable example of both. Midoriko never acknowledged the people who openly gawked or sneered. She never felt the need to explain or defend herself. She was fascinated with only one aspect of the white man's world, the soldiers, and from the perfect angle upon that bench, it was the soldiers Midoriko gave her heart to.

Kagome's father told her he'd overheard from Spotted Tail himself that Midoriko had grown so fascinated with the whites she refused to marry anyone but a "captain". To Kagome's utter heartbreak, the young woman had lost any chance of love at the hands of consumption, and had died with her final wish unfulfilled, to see Ft. Laramie one last time and eventually be buried there, surrounded by her beloved soldiers forever.

Spotted Tail, Josiah had said one balmy spring night, holding Kagome close on their porch rocker as his eyes darkened with sympathy and the cold shadows of dusk, was not just an honorable leader, but a devoted father, and although Midoriko's death crushed him and he knew the trails would be perilous, he promised her spirit and his people that he would follow her wish. He and his band were already on their way to the fort in hopes a white doctor could cure her, but upon her death they made quick work of packing their homes and wares in preparation to continue on, ready to honor their beloved sister. After a hard journey through brittle, sleety gray weather that reflected the sorrow felt throughout every heart, Spotted Tail's procession arrived at Ft. Laramie with Midoriko traditionally wrapped in deerskin and carried on a pall between two white mustangs, her favorite ponies.

Colonel Henry Maynadier, the post commander at the time, had ridden out to welcome the Lakota Sioux chief and offer Midoriko a full military funeral. Josiah had joined the Beaudine brothers behind a small retinue of soldiers accompanying Col. Maynadier, and it was then, as the Colonel comforted Spotted Tail with his sincere intentions to bestow upon Midoriko the utmost respect, he saw tears shine in the great chief's eyes.

_"The Great Spirit has taken her,"_ _Col. Maynadier soothed him, "and he never did anything except for some good purpose. Everything will be prepared to have her funeral at sunset, and as the sun goes down it might remind you of the darkness left in your lodge when your beloved daughter was taken away, but as the sun will surely rise again, so she will rise, and someday we will all meet in the land of the Great Spirit."_

It seemed Spotted Tail wasn't expecting a white soldier to be so compassionate, just as Col. Maynadier was shocked an Indian possessed the ability to cry. For a long while Spotted Tail couldn't speak, but he took the Colonel's hand instead, gripping it until adequate words came to him.

_"This must be a dream for me to be surrounded by such as you. Have I been asleep during the last four years of hardship and trial and am dreaming that all is to be well again, or is this real? Yes, I see that it is, the beautiful day, the sky blue, without a cloud, the wind calm and still to suit the errand I come on and remind me that you have offered me peace."_

From beneath the burden of pain, a veil of ignorance lifted in that moment, and the two strangers became more than friends, they became _men_, both with recognizable hearts and innominable hope, both fighting for the right to live.

Even as a child, Kagome could tell something had changed the day of the funeral. Just before sunset, Midoriko's body was processed to a scaffold by a throng of her relatives, a full garrison of soldiers and countless Indians. A crowd of settlers quietly crept up to the outskirts of the funeral, curiosity guiding their steps until their numbers were indistinguishable from those gathered in mourning. No matter the striking silence, she could barely hear the Chaplain's sermon standing with her mother bouncing Souta on her hip on the far hill overlooking the ceremony. Several times Kagome tugged on her mother's skirt, anxious to move closer to her Priestess, but Haruka always hushed her with a quick shake of her head, a finger to her lips and then a reassuring rub of her hair. They were sheltered by a short cluster of trees on that hill, ensconced in breeze-blown shadows, and Kagome had flushed with anger at the realization her mother was hiding.

_"Mama," Kagome had hissed, tugging again sharply. "We shouldn't hide here. We should be by her."_

_"She knows you're here, Kagome-chan. Watch," her mother had nodded toward the funeral, her voice hushed with wisdom. "This is what Midoriko would want you to see."_

According to the Lakota Sioux custom, after the Chaplain's sermon four Indian women covered Midoriko's wrapped body with a thick buffalo robe. Each one lovingly placed within it one of Midoriko's possessions, tucking it close to the girl's still heart. Then, at the silent gasp of the crowd, Col. Maynadier broke from his line and walked alone, guarded by soundless stares, to kneel by Midoriko's body. After a moment of contemplation, he lay a beautiful pair of gauntlets atop the robe, the kind worn to keep a soldier's hands warm during the frigid depths of winter.

There was a subtle crescendo in the Indian women's weeping, and then the Colonel stood up and walked back to his place.

The coffin was closed and covered snugly with a red blanket, then raised upon the scaffold so the Sioux could proceed with their traditional mourning. The crowd contracted, drawing closer together, and many hands, both red and white, clasped together in prayer.

Kagome had seen Indian blankets available for trade when the tribes camped close to the fort, with their intricate patterns of earthen hues, but looking at the tight weave of the crowd she never thought she'd see one so vast. Races bled together upon the loom of that field, their colors softly blending into something Kagome knew she should memorize. White supported red, brown complemented blue, until every thread composed a tapestry of what life was meant to be.

Kagome glanced at her mother to find the same appreciation glistening in small streams down her face. She wasn't hiding them out of fear, she was making sure Kagome saw Midoriko's message for what it was.

_"This must be a dream for me to be surrounded by such as you."_

It was indeed a dream, one Kagome wondered if she'd ever witness again, and she rubbed her eyes as tears blurred her vision.

In the days that followed, Kagome had begged and begged her father to allow her a small prayer at Midoriko's grave to the point of his first gray hairs, but he relented only when her mother suggested they go as a family. Prayers never hurt, she'd said with a hand brushing Kagome's bangs from her eyes, especially from the kindness of strangers.

A tiny Souta had rolled in the stubbly prairie grass of early spring as Kagome tethered a prayer charm to the tree marking the site of Midoriko's burial. She murmured a blessing in Japanese and then the Lord's Prayer, reciting both phrases painted on the long strip of burlap. She wished so deeply in that moment for some knowledge of Indian words. She wanted Midoriko to understand her when she whispered her admiration. She needed her Little Green Priestess to know that one day Kagome would share her fearlessness to live between two worlds, and love them both equally, no matter the hardships she faced.

As the military families rotated in and out of Ft. Laramie, the memory of Midoriko went with them, and the bench which had stayed vacant for months after her famous funeral grew crowded with ladies gossiping outside the Post Trader's store or children waiting for their parents to finish shopping. It really was the best spot to watch the soldiers marching, and years later when Ayame saw it vacant and claimed it, everyone else avoided it like the plague, not wanting to sully themselves with such associations, unknowingly acting just as others had done with Midoriko.

That was fine with Kagome. She liked to believe Midoriko had saved the bench for them. There was enough space for three, but Kagome and Ayame preferred to spread out their skirts on purpose, marking Midoriko's territory like a monument in her memory.

Kagome had nearly jumped three feet off their bench the day Ayame leaned heavily on her shoulder, her mouth already at her ear and her hand raised to divulge a conspiracy. Based on the redhead's enthusiasm, she'd expected a strapping new dark-haired, blue-eyed recruit to come marching down the line, truly anything other than the skinny boy ambling by distractedly, but for some reason once Ayame saw Jak she couldn't watch anything else.

_"Do you see that boy over there, to the left?" she whispered loudly. Kagome winced; Ayame had never seemed to master the art of subtlety._

_"Yeah," Kagome shot a glance to the boy dragging his feet in the road, his eyes glued to the rows of men buttoned up in blue. "What about him?"_

_Ayame shrugged._

_"Okay," Kagome drawled, slightly irked, "why'd you point him out if you're not going to tell me anything?"_

_"I dunno," she shrugged again and scooted closer, "but don't you think it's rather queer he's staring at the soldiers like that?"_

_"So what? He doesn't look much older than us. Maybe his father's in the military and he just can't wait to follow in his footsteps."_

_"I dunno," Ayame repeated and started wiggling her feet in the dirt like a cantankerous child, "My Uncle Hank told me stories once, about boys who like other boys –"_

_"Boys who what?" Kagome's eyes rounded in interest. She'd never heard of such a thing!_

_"– well, he tried to tell me, but then my grandfather stuffed two biscuits and a corn cob in his mouth. I only heard bits and pieces later that night when both he and my dad made it loud and clear to Uncle Hank he wasn't supposed to bring up things like that at the dinner table." Ayame hunched over and propped her cheek in her hand, looking bored despite her adamant stare at the boy still equally enraptured with the army formations._

_Kagome blinked in wonder and added her undivided attention to the mix, noticing for the first time the nearly indecipherable clues placed strategically throughout the boy's dreamy expression. There was a certain sway to his step that reminded her of a preening cat, the way a female would roll around with those throaty meows when she was in heat. Not to mention where his eyes lingered and when they nearly bulged out of their sockets. It wasn't when the weapons were distributed or Capt. Flannery shouted orders. It was expressly during certain positions that emphasized another sort of bulge, a whole slew of them all in a row._

_"What more did your uncle say?" Kagome asked offhandedly._

_"Aw, something about cowboys alone in the mountains, I forget."_

_Kagome didn't have a chance to lament her friend's flightiness when the boy turned away from the now departing soldiers with a heavy sigh and caught them staring, three pairs of eyes fastening to each other directly. Ayame's chin slipped out of her palm. Kagome did what she always did when caught; she stopped breathing. For his part, the boy looked equal parts guilty and mortified, his back straight and tense, making his willowy collar bone stick out under his gray linen shirt, and his foot hung suspended in the air, unable to find a safe step down._

_Kagome wasn't sure how long they all stayed that way, looking mighty stupid to anyone who bothered to look, but it was long enough for her to imagine one of her father's action packed tall tales unravel itself in her head, complete with a dueling standoff between the wanted bandit and the invincible sheriff, tumbleweeds rolling with haste from out the line of fire and fair damsels cowering under the storefront awnings. It wasn't until she nearly blacked out from lack of air that she realized how silly they were being. This boy hadn't done anything to them; he hadn't done anything wrong. He was acting ashamed for something every girl his age, and some of the much younger boys, did with open adoration. Huffing with anger at herself, she didn't think twice before leaping off the bench and marching straight up to him._

_He shuffled back a bit until they stood not two feet from each other. Kagome didn't know she was scowling, her determination a palpable thing inside her although the poor boy wasn't privy to that, when she jutted out her hand for that first welcoming shake, the one that made or broke alliances in their town. Never mind ladies didn't offer to shake hands, not proper ladies anyway._

_"Um..." the boy stuttered, his high-pitched voice cracking slightly._

_"I'm Kagome," she all but demanded. _And don't you forget it,_ she might as well have said, at least by his reasoning. "Pleased to meet you," came out instead._

_The boy forgot his bashfulness for a moment and cleaned out his ear with a pinky. "Eh?"_

_"I said, pleased to meet you." He couldn't tell if she suddenly realized her severity, but when her face blossomed in the most heartfelt smile he'd seen from a stranger in a long time, the boy was immediately at ease. He released a breath he couldn't remember holding, whistling slightly, and took her hand timidly._

_"Jackson Cornelius Shinnick." he smiled. "Pleased to meet you, too."_

_Ayame took that as permission to bound over, and she nearly smothered them in her unabashed joy at having a new friend. Space was cleared on their private bench, Jak fitting in the middle like that last piece to a puzzle, and their tradition of watching the soldiers continued without further incident. Kagome couldn't help but roll her eyes when Jak and Ayame would sigh together, on cue it seemed. She was glad they'd each found someone else to share details of how well tailored Lt. Hardwick's jacket looked on Monday, or how clean, crisp and_ tight _Private Jensen's pants looked on Thursday. Kagome had never been one to swoon at every opportunity, but that didn't mean she didn't love indulging her two best friends._

Clouds tossed around the last rays of sunset as Kagome came back to the present, and the tiny wagon moved steadily along, bouncing smoothly over the pockmarked ground strewn with miniature mountains and caves that probably used to be prairie dog burrows or last summer's buffalo and antelope tracks. Ayame slowed her pace for a brief moment when they saw the cavallard bound for the barn dance off in the distance, but with a quick snap to the reins and a bark to the horses, she sat up a little straighter in her seat and forged ahead. Kagome and Jak shared a proud grin.

It had grown marginally darker by the time they reached the others, and unfortunately it was Martha's wagon they pulled up to first, seeking entrance in the line. Hojo had solid control of the reins, but he blanched when he turned to his left to find Kagome leveling him with a hard glare.

"Um," he stammered, and his pallid face nearly burst with a guilty blush, "Huh-hi, Kah-Kagome. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." She was quite aware of the edge in her voice, and how Martha probably interpreted it considering her smug smile and the hand that found its way to Hojo's knee. He jerked at the touch, but then Kagome slightly, if not regrettably, enjoyed watching him squirm. She knew her feigned anger was probably not the nicest game to play, but she figured it was harmless enough and might divert his casual courtship to a girl less controlling than she made herself out to be. But then he _was_ with Martha, and wasn't that a ball and chain waiting to happen? Ah well, Hojo always was a little dense.

"He's where he wants to be, obviously," Martha cooed. She waved her hands like swatting a pest. "Why don't you three carnies put on a circus by yourselves and leave the dance to the people who matter?"

"But with you at the dance tonight, who'd we'd get to perform as the fat lady?" Jak poked his head out between Kagome and Ayame, beaming a guileless grin.

"Or-or the _bearded_ lady?!" Ayame tried hard to attach herself to Jak's incendiary mirth, and actually succeeded for once. Kagome patted her shoulder, impressed.

"Oh, you," Martha fumed and Hojo chuckled nervously, but no one paid him any attention, "Just go home, would you?"

"Not a chance," Kagome shot back. "Pick up the pace Howard, we're comin' through."

Against Martha's demands to the contrary, Hojo sped up enough for Ayame to make an easy transition into the cavallard. Once at a steady cantor, the three of them burst with raucous laughter. It was worth coming just for the look on Martha Bithlow's face, and the dance hadn't even started yet.

Although the sun had completely set as they paralleled their path to the North Platte River, its goodbye was grand in the wide prairie sky, a broad, squat swath of reds and golds that took Kagome's breath away. It mingled with the pale light of the rising full moon and lit the very tops of the woods' short trees on fire, catching the wings of a few songbirds that flew between the branches readying their nests to bed down for the night.

Then something caught her eye along the tree line. It was a quick movement, easily dismissed if it wasn't for the thin thread of bright silver than followed in the shadow's wake. Kagome wasn't sure why her heart started to pound and her fingers started to tingle. As she scanned the forest's edge on high alert, she wasn't aware she'd stopped breathing.

_There_, her stomach lurched, _in the brush_.

Her eyes darted, widened. The curls dangling from her upswept hair flipped, catching the luminous twilight as she snapped her attention to the right.

_Again, behind a tree._

Her heart unhitched the wagon's horse and mounted it, galloping hard out of the open, vulnerable field, its frantic pace thundering in her ears. She gasped deeply, her breath quickened on its heels. She felt like a deer surrounded by wolves.

Another flash of light. A raised rifle.

A raised _rifle_.

_Rifle..._

"Rifle!" She yelled, and Ayame jerked hard on the reins, careening away from the wagon train. A few shiny red curls slipped from her intricate bun as she struggled to regain control, shooting Kagome a perplexed frown.

"Kagome, what the hell?" Jak grumbled as he pulled himself up from a tangled pile in the wagon cart.

"There!" Kagome shouted again, pointing frantically to the forest, "Ayame, there's people in the woods with rifles! We have to turn around NOW!"

Ayame blanched and froze. "Whu-what?"

Their shouting caused a ripple of consternation through the wagon train. Martha spun around with a sour look. "Would you shut up, already?"

As Kagome turned to warn her, the world ground to a halt. She watched her hand raise in slow warning, her voice swept away with the moment. What happened next, she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy.

Ten braves, four on horseback and six on foot, ripped from the woods like a thunderstorm, their horses' hooves pounding the earth flat. A pack of arrows and a spray of bullets split the quiet night, their pointed teeth mauling wood and skin. Through wagons up and down the line, people howled in pain and panic.

"Indians!" a man yelled up near the front.

_Thank you, Captain Obvious_, trumpeted through Kagome's head as more arrows whistled between their wagon and Martha's. The crack-whip sound spooked their horse and it reared on its hind legs, thrashing and whinnying in terror before charging full tilt at an awkward run. The small wagon couldn't keep up. Kagome, Ayame and Jak barely kept a solid hold inside the cart as it crashed over the rugged terrain, and after the yoke could no longer bear the pressure it split like an axe through firewood, twisting the wagon on its side and shattering the front axle and left wagon wheels.

Kagome was vaguely aware of when her body took flight and the wagon disappeared from her fingers, her grip not as secure as she'd hoped. She dimly registered the sharp pain of contact with the unforgiving ground, hissing under a wash of tears when nerves on her side burst into flames.

Ayame wasn't feeling much better. She groaned and palmed the back of her head, blinking through dust and disorientation to see Jak scrambling after the horse. She couldn't tell exactly, but it looked like the broken yoke had pitched itself like a tent pole in the ground, trapping the horse although he struggled fiercely. That was some luck the old stallion was still there, no less that he hadn't been shot. She shook her head and made ready to join him when she noticed Kagome still lying limp on the grass several yards away, moaning. Ayame's stomach dropped when she saw the damaged wheel by Kagome's foot, counting several spokes sticking out like broken bones, one jagged stub covered in blood.

"Oh no...Kagome!" Ayame broke for the cover of the wagon, shrieking as an arrow embedded itself in her shadow.

Kagome could feel the adrenaline surging through her system like a caged beast. It was all so surreal, the warriors circling like vultures and the partygoers running in every direction. She stood on shaking legs and clutched her side, feeling the frayed material move through her fingers, its damage irreparable. "You made me rip my _dress!_" She clenched her teeth, her chest heaving. _All of Mama's work... Dammit, this was supposed to be a happy night! For Jak, for Ayame..._

_Wait a minute...Jak!_ She blinked. _Ayame!_

She might as well have been punched, because it finally registered that the chaotic cyclone she stood in the middle of was no dream. Her friends were in danger. Frantic, she swung around calling for them.

"Jak! Ayame! Where are you?" She felt a firm tug on the back of her skirt and dropped to her knees to find Ayame crouched behind the lopsided wagon.

"Kagome! Get down!" Ayame pleaded with tears tilling the dirt on her cheeks. "Jak's unhitching the horse."

"What?" Kagome surged up to aid him but Ayame held her fast. "We have to help. He could get killed!"

"No! You know he can saddle up faster than we can!" Three more arrows thumped in the side of the wagon and a bullet whizzed over their heads, grinding the edge of the wagon cart to corn meal and blasting it in their hair. They screamed bloody murder.

"We've got to do something," Kagome wheezed, "Doesn't your father keep a rifle in this thing?"

"Yeah, in the back, but it probably fell out!" Ayame started to panic.

"Hold tight, girl!" Kagome gripped her shoulders and shook her firmly. "We'll get through this. Just you wait!" With a nod, Ayame composed herself and Kagome leapt up to search for the gun. Suddenly the world wheeled wildly out of control and she dug her heels in the dirt to gain purchase, steadying herself against the wagon. She blinked rapidly and slumped against the cracked axle, Ayame crawling to her side.

"Kagome?" she screamed in a raspy whisper, "You okay?"

"Don't worry about me," Kagome forced her focus above another wave of dizziness, woozy and nauseous. _Breathe, girl, breathe dammit! _"I'm not going down that easily!"

Spotting the rifle Ayame's father always kept in the wagon cart hidden in grass under the wheel, she lunged for it, cursing herself silly in the process. _Keep breathing, you dunderhead! You can't faint at a time like this!_

"Kagome –" Ayame whined and squealed when Kagome cocked the gun and popped a shot at a brave on foot, bracing her body against the wagon chassis for cover. Her mouth fell open in surprise when she got him square in the chest.

"Wow," she mumbled. "Lucky shot."

"Kagome!" Ayame shrieked again. Turning sharply at the sound, Kagome followed her friend's finger as it pointed to another brave on horseback. She wasn't close enough to see the rage blazing in his eyes, but she visibly shivered at the wild snarl curling through his war cry as he spurred his maple brown mustang in their direction.

Her vision swayed and time plodded again as he charged, moving like a rock through a swamp. Distantly she heard her name being called over whoops and screams, and she turned to see Jak pull Ayame by the collar atop her wagon's horse, its legs fumbling in fear without the yoke's restraint.

"Kagome!" Jak yelled, his voice sounding strangely like pulled sorghum candy, fluid, buttery and deep. _What a time to hit puberty, Jak_, she thought as she stumbled back from the safety of the wagon's chassis, chuckling to herself as her vision skewed again. She wasn't sure why that was funny, just as she wasn't sure why her veins felt like they were filled with hot molasses.

"Kagome!" he bellowed again. "Get. On. The. _Horse!_"

Suddenly, irrationally, a sharp, gleaming clarity parted the curtains of Kagome's awareness. Many of her neighbors lay dead, or they'd already ridden at full speed for the far safety of the fort. With the brave on horseback bearing down upon them, there was no way she'd get on Ayame's horse in time, and hefting three people the smaller pack animal would never outrun the brave's war-bred stallion.

She just couldn't make it, but maybe with better odds, her friends would. She shook off her delirium and made her choice without a second thought.

"No time!" She smacked the horse on its rear and shook uninhibitedly as it bolted for the reinforcements, her name a litany on the wind, Ayame screaming a path to safety. She sighed in relief as they faded into the distance unharmed, until the brashness of her actions knocked the wind clean out of her lungs.

_What the hell did I just do? I'm doomed!_

She glanced up to see the brave on horseback knocking an arrow aimed straight for her heart, his build solid and horrifying, looking for all the world like the mighty beasts and gods from her mother's stories. She pulled her buffalo pelt tight around her as it was her only shield, and she fervently prayed it was as magic as it felt, including the ability to deflect arrows. The emptied wagons and other braves on horseback created an impenetrable barrier between her and the few local cowboys charging over the low brow of the hill to help them. Behind her, the only safety lay in the same place from where the danger had emerged, the forest. At least it was a chance to lose them.

As Kagome kicked up dust, she was painfully aware it was probably one of the worst decisions she'd ever made, but since she had no other choice she ran for all her might for the thick cover of trees, shrouding her face with the buffalo hide because what good would it possibly do her to watch the arrow with her name on it fly home? If she was going to die, she'd rather it be quick than dread those last few moments, watching death approach helplessly.

Too bad she didn't see the brave lower his bow and draw his horse to an abrupt stop, his face blanketed in shock. Blinking, he shouted and motioned two braves on foot to follow her into the woods, with specific instructions to capture her _alive_.

--

These verdant, rolling plains were monitored by the U.S. government, and yet he found the Lakota war party skulking around the paltry wagon train like they had every right to tear it apart. He'd left his village for a weeklong hunt - nothing serious, more to commune with his western lands in a rare, peaceful moment of solitude - when he'd heard the masculine shouts and feminine screams echoing through the patchy woods that camped along the North Platte River. Without a second thought he darted through the trees to catch sight of the commotion, curious and slightly offended this small band of his tribe's Lakota allies dared to make a ruckus where it wasn't warranted. Eyeing the tumult across the sloping field, he wasn't surprised the attackers were so young.

_Idiots. This is no way to fight a war._

Almost two years ago he'd gone with his father, the well-known and well-respected chief of his Northern Cheyenne village, Grey Eagle, to join the many Lakota present at Ft. Laramie for the signing of a new peace treaty. Under the fervent ambition of the famous Lakota chief Red Cloud, a bloody war had been fought with the U.S. military over white encroachment in their territory surrounding the Powder River Valley near Yellowstone. Red Cloud's pursuit was relentless and ruthless, but ultimately victorious. The treaty secured their rights to that land and the Black Hills, protecting its sacred sites and hunting grounds rich in prized game like the buffalo, but game was becoming more scarce as more whites settled in tribal lands and the U.S. government did little to stop it. Skirmishes such as the one ahead of him still happened when local bands felt the treaty wasn't enough to survive on. Whites didn't seem to understand or care that the flow of the herds marked the difference between life and death for his people and all the plains tribes, so much that they held the animal to be a messenger of the Great Spirit. The buffalo meant everything to a man of the plains.

He knew this better than anyone.

Gunfire crackled through the quiet dusk, and he tensed on his haunches in preparation for a fight. With hollers from a gaggle of white reinforcements racing in from the distance, things had just gotten a lot more serious. There was no going back from a sound like that. Looking around, he noticed a few half-clothed bodies gleamed in haunting stillness under the rising moon, dead and painted pale because of it. He held no sympathy for the results of such youthful brashness. Dead is what you get without a plan.

The whites from the wagon train scattered across the meadow, most running toward the reinforcements with others trapped by the remaining warriors on the opposite side. One breeched the woods and ran toward him in zigzags with two Lakota close behind. _That's a woman_, he realized. Even under billowing layers of muslin and eyelet lace he discerned her dainty curves and knew she was built more brittle than a bird. She could run like a jackrabbit, though. She flew like his father's proud eagle on those tiny bird feet.

Further and further the warriors drew her away from the safety of her group, until she pivoted left and made a beeline for his position. He shuffled through the underbrush to monitor her progress and debated if he should assist her escape. This area wasn't contended like the fertile land up north and west, and with the fort so close retaliation from the commanders in Washington would be swift. Any female casualties from this suicide mission - for that's surely all this haphazard attack could possibly wind up being - could damn the nearby bands with massacres worse than they'd endured in the past. He understood as much as the next warrior the need to fight, but with such a thoughtless attack, what were they fighting for?

Closer and closer she came until he could hear her keening breath, when almost right in front of where he crouched behind a thicket she stumbled on a root and fell flat on her face with a yelp. He didn't know whether to grimace or chuckle. He certainly didn't expect his opening would come so easily.

_What a sight you are, white girl._ He snorted to himself. _Graceful in flight but clumsy when landing._

The young Lakota skidded to a stop and nearly tumbled over each other as they gaped at her, not uttering a sound. They hopped and fidgeted from side to side, checking her from various angles, appearing more like prey scanning their surroundings for danger than triumphant warriors come to claim their prize. Taking his cue, he emerged seamlessly from the shadows and stepped between the Lakota and their target, staking his own claim with his silent but fearsome presence.

Making sure they felt the full brunt of his icy stare, he addressed them tersely in their Siouan language, _"You chase this woman, but don't attack her when she falls at your feet. Why not?"_

Eyes wide with fright, they waved their hands in frantic gestures. _"Pale Cheyenne, are you dense or something? Look at her! It's White Buffalo Calf Woman, come to condemn us for this battle! We have to beg her forgiveness!"_

They thought this awkward girl was an embodiment of the Lakota's most sacred spiritual messenger? He was thoroughly unconvinced and more than a little perturbed at their utter lack of respect and common sense. _"So you chase her through the woods at night? No wonder she's afraid of you. She probably thinks you're going to kill her like you killed the other whites. Congratulations on a successful peace talk, fools."_

Aghast at their own stupidity, the two warriors, who didn't look any older than his 15 year old brother now that he was close enough to examine them, flailed around and wailed in mourning, ranting nonsequitor remarks about how their village was doomed. He grunted lowly, in perfect agreement but exasperated at having to deal with such children, when he heard the woman's sharp intake of breath and her scuttling back through the crunch of autumn leaves. He'd never really taken a good look at her. While the "warriors" sobbed, this was as good a chance as any to see exactly for himself how important this woman was.

Turning slowly so as not to scare her further - too late - his eyes widened of their own volition.

Perhaps they weren't exaggerating.

Sprawled on the ground with all the grace of a prairie dog, the white woman gaped at him with the most unusually beautiful blend of features, her mountain cat eyes bluer than twilight and wider than an owl's. The moon picked a bouquet of cool, snowy hues from her dress, but he could tell in the subtle shadows that the material would be that same color and softness even in the afternoon sun. Ink black hair painted a stark silhouette around the pale smoothness of her skin, the contrast so vivid it hurt to focus on one spot for too long, but even all that sweet femininity wasn't enough to drop his breath like a stone in mud. It was what she clutched around her shoulders, what gleamed so brightly and made that hair and those eyes sparkle like ribbed agate, what she huddled in so deeply she almost disappeared...

This strange white girl wore a sacred white buffalo pelt over her body. _Holy shit._

One of those had gone missing six years back during a U.S. Military raid on a Southern Cheyenne band encamped near Sand Creek, in the territories far east of his home. When the survivors had made the long trek into his band's territory, they recounted the horrors they'd seen, and the sacred objects that were lost or pilfered, only to be sold as novelties to the white immigrants passing through their land. His friends and family had lost many relatives to that gruesome massacre, and while it burned his heart black with pain and rage, he wasn't nearly of age to join them in their unanimous warcry against the whites, attacking expeditions and outposts in revenge. His own mixed heritage left him conflicted enough, because he recognized the anguished hesitation on his father's face, and he knew, if just for his father's sake, he shouldn't dishonor the memory of his white mother with such blind vengeance.

Considering the trading routes and the recent rise of interest in buffalo hides, it was thoroughly possible she cowered in the exact pelt his tribe had lost. If he could bring it back to his village, he could rekindle his people's hope by ushering in the redemption promised by the sacred white buffalo and fulfill the prophecy of his birth.

_Time to count the coup,_ He thought proudly. Rearing up to his full height, he made his decision with an sharp whoop, startling the Lakota boys so fiercely he was upon them before they could whimper. Two quick blows landed them both unconscious. They would have one hell of a time finding their way back home seeing every trail in triplicate, but they'd surely never forget this night, just as surely as they'd never forget who put them in that position. Cracking his knuckles with a self-congratulatory smirk, he turned to fetch the pelt from the silent woman.

And blinked in agitation when she promptly fainted.

Suppressing an irritated sigh, he moved purposefully on padded moccasins, gliding with ease over twigs and dead leaves to study her. He'd seen trees fall over with more finesse, but what this girl lacked in poise she certainly made up for in beauty. Kneeling at her side, he was overcome with how strange she looked, weaving hints of every race he'd ever seen: the whites, the Chinese, even soft allusions to the look of his people. The design was so delicate that he felt privileged just to sit at her feet. It was a struggle not to reach out and touch her with the reverence the unconscious Lakota thought she deserved.

As his hand hovered mere inches from her cheek, she moaned weakly and tossed her head. It wasn't a healthy sound, and certainly not accepting of his touch. He flinched and recoiled when she moaned again, throatier that time, with sweat beading on her brow and a grimace showing straight, white teeth.

Studying her body for injuries, the sight he found stopped him cold. A large swatch of muslin hung damp and limp just above the gathering at her waist, ripped open around an unsightly gash bleeding freely through the material. He felt a little chagrined for judging her so harshly now, considering for her to run so far and for so long with such an injury bespoke a strong, determined will. This was not the waspish, frail white woman of his brother's crude jokes and the elders' prejudice. This one was a fighter.

He growled lowly, realizing in that instant he couldn't leave her there to die, but he was torn on the best way to make sure of her recovery. If he returned her to her people, would he be arrested for tonight's attack? There were some settlers living near the fort who would corroborate his story, but he wasn't sure the military would allot him the privilege to plead his case. He remembered hearing tales of two chiefs who had returned a white woman captive only to be executed, their bodies dangling by chains for months on end as a grisly warning. Should he risk taking her to his village? Her disappearance could alert the white soldiers, but he knew reliable scouts who could escort her home privately and discreetly, and make sure everything was calmly resolved.

With an errant thought, he wondered if his father had asked himself the same questions when forced to make a similar choice. He shook his head to clear it and affirmed that the reasons behind his heritage were obsolete. He was the living answer, as where the stories of how his white mother had endeared herself amongst his village, as was the love that clouded his father's eyes when he presided over the festival fires and traveled back in time to a utopian life his eldest son was too young to remember.

He knew, just by that chasm of hatred that separated his people from the whites and how borders dividing them shrunk every day, that his mother and father had never set out to fall in love. It was not rebellion that kindled their closeness, but compassion. He sighed and frowned. Compassion was something he was not normally good at. It was a trait nearly impossible to cultivate when living as an oddity amongst his own race, segregated as a sign from the Great Spirit and treated with a fluctuating mix of respect and fear, but also demonized by an entire nation that desired his culture's complete subjugation. Regardless, he refused to victimize himself when his father had stressed the importance of a determined, discerning heart and mind in every lesson he taught. He would fight when he deemed fit, with pride, skill and perfect control. No matter his struggle with compassion, he was well versed and naturally fluent in the virtue of Cheyenne honor.

Glancing back at the girl, he decided that's how he would take the situation. As a healthy, able man, it was his responsibility to help an injured woman, and his duty to do what was in the best interest of his people, despite them most likely seeing her presence in their village as a threat and questioning his allegiance, misunderstanding his choice. Steeling himself, he couldn't trouble himself with portents of their strife. This woman needed him, and glancing again at the buffalo hide that engulfed her tiny body, as much as he was loathe to admit it, he needed her.

His father would understand, and that was all that mattered.

Using a tenderness he was glad no one was lucid enough to witness, he folded the small woman into his arms and carried her through the thick woods, tracking a ribbon of moonlight to the pinto horse he'd left tied to a tree, already feeling the harsh repercussions of his decision but holding his head high anyway.

--

THANK YOU to my FF . net readers: Hajnalmadar, WolvenTemptress, madmiko, and Reesiepup

And my dokuga . com readers: enmaren, A.M, hasu86, Libertines, sesshysjadedsamuri, Izby, and ur name

Your reviews mean the world to me, even if it takes me forever to say so and post the next chapter!! Each one brings a huge smile to my face and a profound feeling of gratitude. Bless you and your awesomeness!!

Otherwise, good LORD, this chapter was a pain!! I'm trying very hard to conform my fiction to history, but I tell you, there are a lot of conflicting accounts of events during this time period. Oo The more I get into it, the more discrepancies I have to fix and I'm tellin' you, some stuff may be wrong but I'm just going to have to suck it up and move on. I'm so anal retentive about it, that's going to be a challenge.

Also, the more I read this chapter, the more I realize Inuyasha may have been a better physical fit with the mixed heritage, but I just couldn't commit such heresy against my OTP!! Besides, how else am I gonna explain Sess being all silvery and pale as a Cheyenne man? I mean, c'mon...besides, his parents are already predetermined from the "Grey Eagle's Bride" novel, so my hands are tied.

--

This may be the longest mini-encyclopedia in recorded history:

**Mni Akuwin** was a real person, and so were the circumstances of her funeral. Some parts of this story just write themselves, I swear. The quotes from Col. Maynadier and Spotted Tail are real, too.

**Northern Cheyenne / Southern Cheyenne** is one nation split between two distinct geographical areas (and eventually, reservations), with the NC in Wyoming, northern Colorado, South Dakota and Montana during this time period and the SC in southern Colorado, Nebraska and Kansas. Sesshypoo is Northern Cheyenne.

**White Buffalo Calf Woman** is a sacred messenger to the Lakota. Instead of me completely bastardizing this beautiful tradition, please check it out for yourself: http / www. kstrom. net/ isk/ arvol/ buffpipe. html

**White Buffalo** are sacred to all Plains tribes for various reasons. The Lakota associate it with White Buffalo Calf Woman, while the Cheyenne have a beautiful story about a great flood (interestingly similar to one in the Bible) where the pelt of a white buffalo bull was used to shelter the remaining people, animals and vegetation in the Yellowstone Valley of northwestern Wyoming after a world-wide flood destroyed whole populations. It is seen as a gift of the Great Spirit and its hide was often used by medicine men to cure illness.

**Counting the Coup** is a American Indian battle practice used by the Plains tribes which involved touching an enemy warrior and then running away unharmed. It was considered a supreme act of bravery. Needless to say I take some liberties having "Sess" knock them out cold, but he did it to stall for time, so I forgive him.

**The Sand Creek Massacre** occurred on November 29, 1864, when U.S. Militia in the Colorado territory destroyed and looted a village of Southern Cheyenne and Arapaho encamped along Sand Creek, killing 150-200 men, women and children and decimating the Cheyenne political and clan system. The attack killed 8 of the chiefs who sat on the Cheyenne Council of 44, many of whom had promoted peace with the whites. It was a decisive event instigating nearly a decade of bloody battles between U.S. soldiers and various Plains tribes.

**The Chinese** Well, c'mon people, I don't need to explain who they are, do I? I mean, anyone watch the Olympics? But did you know there really were Chinese immigrants working in the West at this point in history? In fact, a lot of the railroads wouldn't have been built if it wasn't for Chinese laborers, but sadly, like every group that wasn't good ole' Whitey back in the day (I can say that since I'm about as Anglo-Saxon as one can get), they were discriminated against.

**The Ft. Laramie Treaty of 1868** was an agreement between the United States and the Lakota Sioux, putting an end to a war between the Lakota and the U.S. military over the Powder River Country in northwestern Wyoming. It ensured protection of Lakota sacred sites and hunting grounds. It brought about a time of relative peace compared to earlier in the decade, that is until the Black Hills gold rush of 1875 sparked vast migrations right through Lakota reservation territory. Minor skirmishes still occurred in between the treaty and the gold rush, although less frequently.

**Chiefs Two Face and Black Foot** were two Lakota chiefs who brought white captive Mrs. Eubank and her baby to Fort Laramie to turn them over to the Army. Mrs. Eubank had been taken captive during a raid by the Cheyenne on the Little Blue River. Apparently the chiefs had bought Mrs. Eubank's freedom to gain the favor of the whites. Instead, they received death. Despite protests from several individuals, the very incompetent Colonel Thomas Moonlight had the chiefs hung with chains and left their bodies hanging for months as an example to other chiefs. Of course Moonlight's action brought further hostilities to the area.


	3. Captive Audience

So I reread "Grey Eagle's Bride" recently to brush up on some specifics, and damn if I didn't fall in love with that book all over again. While I got mine for $.10 at a road trip yard sale in middle-of-nowhere Kentucky, if you like well written romances I seriously recommend checking it out at your local library or getting a dirt-cheap used copy off **abebooks-dot-com**. Better yet, (shameless plug) sign up at **igive-dot-com** for a charity cause you believe in, like:

• St. Joseph Lakota Indian School

• St. Labre Cheyenne Indian School

• Any other Native American support organization you know of

Then shop through the igive mall at **abebooks-dot-com**, so a portion of your purchase goes to helping your cause. I encourage you to spend Christmas at **igive-dot-com** and help others while you shop.

Also, for your listening pleasure, I've built The Buffalo Hide Soundtrack. *Allows a moment for applause* Access it here (delete spaces):

**http: // listen . grooveshark . com/playlist/The_Buffalo_Hide/85461**

Click "Listen to Playlist" and enjoy! I've arranged the songs to correlate with the general outline of what I have planned for the story, so take whatever clues from it you will. ~_^ It was a very fascinating journey scouring for this music, because I discovered the instruments of all the cultures involved - Japan, the Old West, the Cheyenne - sound pretty similar. The flute and drums of the Plains Tribes could be long lost brothers to the Japanese shakuhachi flute and taiko drums, while the Japanese biwa and koto, and the Chinese ehru and pipa carry visions of American Mountain music, those bluegrass tunes that evolved from the influx of poor European immigrants. It's beautiful to hear these sounds weave together and imagine how easy it would be for people's hearts to do the same.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Inuyasha, Grey Eagle's Bride or any of the songs on my TBH soundtrack. No money no problems.

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**Chapter 3 - Captive Audience**

-----

_Men don't cry,_ Souta repeated to himself, wiping his cheeks clean, _I can't cry. I won't. Not now._

He glanced up at his father rampaging in front of the officer's desk, his voice hoarse and his heart raw, both crumbling like brittle winter bark. He turned at the choked sob his mother tried to hide behind a handkerchief Kagome had embroidered for her birthday last August.

_Not when they need me._

"Mama," Souta whispered as he grasped her hand, flinching when she jumped, "Everything will be okay. They're gonna find her."

"That's not _good_ enough!" Josiah bellowed before Haruka could answer, punching the post commander's desk with such force it cracked, smearing blood where his knuckles sliced through the skin. "This is my _daughter_ we're talking about! I'm not going to sit here and wait for you to bring her back. I'm leading this expedition _whether you like it or not!_"

"You'll be watching us march by from a jail cell if you don't calm down, Mr. Henderson." Colonel Franklin F. Flint, the fort's gallant new post commander and a decorated war hero, was normally a stalwart man who kept a firm check on his emotions, but even his imposing frame couldn't contain his mounting agitation at Josiah's persistence. He couldn't allow one man to stir up dissension amongst the families of the wagon raid victims who looked to him for guidance, their numbers littered in tight clumps from the office lobby to outside past the porch steps. His sympathies could only stretch so far before order took precedence. "I will have the leader of this perilous mission be in full control of himself. That is why I commissioned Captain Flannery to the post."

Heads turned to the debonair man standing to attention astride the Post Commander's desk. As tempers flared and revenge was demanded for those killed, he'd observed discreetly, standing immobile and ignored. Now everyone looked to him expectedly. Nathan's eyes slid back in their direction, as if the dead silence had brought a wooden statue to life.

He turned crisply, clicking his heels together with a jut to his chin. "I believe we have gathered sufficient evidence to mount a fully-armed counter-offensive. Items and footprints left by the heathen attackers suggest they were Sioux traveling north, northeast from the Nebraska territory. We shall ride out and follow them, then surround them and strike them down."

"Strike them..." Josiah gaped, then his face twisted in rage. "You can't start a battle! Kagome could be killed!"

Nathan was undeterred. "Every effort will be made to the contrary, sir."

"Like it was when the tracks were fresh and you sat here on your laurels doing nothing? I've seen you make quicker decisions for stolen cattle!" Josiah challenged, his fists shaking. "Where was your ardor then?"

"I say let the soldiers go!" Another man yelled from the back, a rancher whose son had been shot through the head, "Kill 'em all and bring back their scalps so I have something to show my boy's grieving mother that justice's been done!"

"Let the Captain do what he must, Josiah," it was Mr. Bithlow's turn to add fuel to the fire, "We demand these murderers be dealt with by whatever means necessary. It's only right!"

"What if Martha'd been taken? Would you want them to shoot indiscriminately? Burn your baby alive? Huh? _Would you?_"

Mr. Bithlow looked upon the golden head of his daughter as she quietly cried in his arms. He had the good sense to shut his mouth, castigated and secretly grateful he wasn't in the Henderson's shoes.

As more men stepped forward and a chorus of discordant voices rose to a fervor, Souta huddled as close to his mother's wool skirts as he could, trying to disappear in the folds and smother the vitriol charging through the air like static. He could easily understand his father's madness, although that did nothing to lessen his terror at the rare sight. Nearly two days had passed since Kagome's disappearance and the military was just now getting up in arms to do something about it. It was equally, if not more surprising that so many townspeople had joined his family to demand military retaliation, but almost a dozen had died that night, and few were really concerned about Kagome.

_When news had traveled from those fleeing the attack, his father and Mr. Orion Beaudine had been the first to sound the alarm. Families scattered to count their loved ones amongst the survivors, but when confronted about those missing no one from the cavallard was composed enough to give a solid answer. _

_Souta couldn't have run fast enough to follow his father through the crowds, leaping from person to person with the same unanswered question - _"Where's Kagome?" _ - and when he finally caught up Josiah immediately ordered him to return to his mother's side. He hadn't listened, because at that moment there was nothing he could do but scream._

_"Papa, look! Someone's coming!" He'd pointed to a horse galloping hard toward them. Pink skirts had billowed out from the saddle, but it was a teenage boy who commanded the reins and pumped his fist in the air, crying for help._

_"That's Jak and Ayame," Josiah had heaved and sprinted to the fort entrance, waving them down. A heated exchange passed between them, and Souta's knees nearly buckled when Jak pulled Ayame from the horse and she collapsed, wailing uncontrollably. Somehow Josiah shook a coherent answer from the girl, and she screamed it for all to hear._

_"She wouldn't get on the horse! She slapped it and trapped herself there!" Ayame had sobbed. "I saw her run into the woods. They followed her! They followed her and now she's gone!"_

_A weight sagged across Souta's back as he'd stood rooted to the spot like a weather-beaten sapling. He saw his mother's blue shaw flutter in the corner of his sight and gulped as her thin arms tightened around his neck. He felt her shoulders tremble as tears saturated his hair. Supporting her with the trunk of his body, he'd trained his sight on his father, waiting for the man to react._

_It took Henry Jed Beaudine shoving a rifle and satchel in his hands, towing two excited paint horses, to spur him into action. He ran back with assurances that he was going to find her. It had been a long time since Souta felt so fierce a hug from his old man. He barely responded, but at his mother's turn she clung to Josiah for dear life._

_Orion and Henry Jed rode up and Josiah broke away, mounting his own horse and charging back to the massacre with a bestial war cry. For hours its haunting echo floated around them and through the deserted parade grounds as luckier families garrisoned themselves inside the safety of their shops and quarters. The only eyes that watched for Kagome's return with he and his mother were the shivering oil lamps sitting on their curtained windowsills. Ayame was too distraught to look back, and Jak had enough work to do comforting her._

_Three ghosts returned to them in the dead of night, the full moon's cold reflection rolling on the men's rifles and the metal buckles binding the bridles and stirrups as they rocked with the horses' tired gait. Its luminance hid nothing of the despair on his father's face. His mother half-ran, half-stumbled to the side of Josiah's horse and grabbed his empty hands. The Beaudines trailed close behind, standing as silent sentries around the weeping couple._

_The men dismounted and Orion softly explained what they had found, disclaiming that it was too dark to be certain and better tracks could be gleaned by daylight. There was still hope, he'd asserted, even though at first glance it might not appear so. _

_When Haruka pressed, Henry Jed had segued into specifics. Something about blood and a broken wagon spoke...a field full of arrows, a few bodies, but no Kagome..._

_That's what they'd said._

No Kagome.

_That's all Souta heard._

"I know what this is." Souta shook himself free of the memory and looked up. His father loomed toward Capt. Flannery like a bull in a pen, preparing himself to break loose. "She's not worth the effort a white girl would garner, is she? _Is she? _Her life isn't worth the _spit_ in your _can!_"

"Josiah!"

The men retreated back to their places, stunned. Josiah stilled on his way to Nathan with his fist raised in mid-air. It wasn't any masculine threat that demanded their attention, but the brokenhearted cry of a mother, the other woman missing in their concern. Haruka couldn't rein in her tears, but her voice straightened with her spine and her face settled into an unshakeable calm as she gripped Souta's hand until it turned white.

"Please. Let's listen to what Captain Flannery has to say."

"I am obliged Mrs. Henderson," Nathan nodded in deference before turning his attention to the tense, but sublimated crowd, "Gentlemen, you know we live in dangerous times, surrounded by monsters lurking in the shadows, just waiting to kill us. Our peace treaty is just two years old and already they break it, disregarding the respect we've granted them, and for what? To attack and butcher defenseless young men and women." He glanced pointedly at Mr. Bithlow, allowing a moment as the stocky man tucked a sniffling Martha deeper into his hold. Nathan waited to make sure everyone noticed the gesture before he continued, addressing them all from fear's fiery pulpit. "My strategy to engage them in battle is not to put Ms. Henderson in danger. I will rescue her and make sure no redskin is left behind to terrorize any of your children in the future. It is my duty to cleanse this plague, and I humbly ask for your invaluable support," his gaze brushed across Josiah and the Beaudines, "just not as civilian scouts on a mission of military significance."

Josiah struggled to submit. "But–"

Nathan bowed sharply, cutting him off, "With due respect, Mr. Henderson, your family needs you here. I am more than capable of returning your daughter safely. Please place your trust in me."

Orion put a hand on Josiah's shoulder and leaned in, pleading privately, "Josiah, we can't track an entire war party on our own. We need the military's resources for something this big. Henry Jed or I can stay behind to help you with anything you need, but you've got to let the Captain go on or things could get a lot worse."

"I won't make you do that. I just..." Josiah's face crumpled and he looked down, words escaping him.

The crowd regrouped and looked questionably to Col. Flint, who sighed and leaned back in his chair, popping its joints as he rolled his shoulders. "Direct any further inquiries to Capt. Flannery. He is in charge."

They turned to him with doubt stinging their tongues, but he held up his hand, snuffing their questions instantly. "A patrol is already assembling on the parade grounds to leave at my signal. We understand your concerns and the gravity of the situation, and plan to conduct ourselves accordingly. You have my solemn vow," Nathan finished, his confidence impregnable, "I have every intention of making them pay."

_-----_

_"Kagome."_

_A woman's voice cut through a dreamy haze. Kagome's mind fumbled for the solid sound. "Wha–"_

_"Kagome. Wake up." She spoke firmly, like an older sister._

_"Who–" _

_Apparently the woman wasn't keen on patience. Her face, the details blackened by the blinding halo behind her, loomed above Kagome's cloudy vision as phantom hands shook her shoulders. "Remember, girl, and wake up. Your _captain_ has come."_

Images from the night before rained down in a torrent, memories churned up like a river's raging rapids. She saw a pale man charge like a vengeful ghost at two dark Indian braves, knocking them both to the ground with one swift swing apiece, right before she fainted. That focused gleam in his eye and that calculated skill in the way he struck them was evidence of an experienced hunter, Kagome was sure. She'd witnessed a similar glint in her father's eye the day he'd shot at a few bandits who dared to prowl around their farm. The memory still made her shiver.

For some reason her queasiness at the memory wouldn't go away, and her teeth chattered uncontrollably. A jolt of damp cold across her stomach woke her with what would've been a scream had a large, calloused hand not clamped itself over her mouth. She bucked under the vice, flailing her legs and arms and howling like a rabid dog until it wasn't just a flash of ice down her side, but her entire body dunked under the water of a snow-fed creek.

The same hand released her mouth to steady her neck, lifting her out of the water so she could sputter the icicles and indignation from her lungs.

"Whu-what the hell? Who do you think you are?" She screamed, frightening a few blackbirds from the blanket of rusted boughs overhead. The firm grasp disappeared and she opened her eyes, flopping backward and freezing at the sight.

Staring at her from an uncomfortably close proximity was the strange man from the night before, or at least, she tried to convince herself he wasn't some sort of native kami. _Or demon, _she swallowed, her melodramatic imagination bombarded with more of her mother's folktales. No man she'd ever seen was so unearthly beautiful.

According to his clothing, he was Indian as well, but everything else was everything but. He wore what most Indian men would in late autumn, a fitted buckskin shirt and matching leggings that did little to hide the hard berth of his body, but she'd never seen a set so bleached before. If it wasn't for the yellowed seams along the fringe and red paint lining the cuffs and shoulders, she would've been sure he wore the rest of her white buffalo hide. Only his breechclout, draping across the ground with a length that made her blush, stood out with its bright ochre paint and bold blue trim at the bottom. His moccasins were so heavily beaded in black they disappeared beneath his bent legs like roots in soil.

The skin peeking from under his buckskin shirt was deeply tanned, but his unbound hair - and it was a sin to call it something so _human_ - was so blonde it might as well have been white. _Lamb's wool white. _Except those areas the leafy shadows couldn't reach, where the strands held the filtered sunlight for ransom; those gleamed like newly minted silver. A breeze kicked up a pewter eagle feather dangling securely at the back of his crown and rustled the sparse fringe along his brow, waving her attention over to his eyes.

_That's not the gold of Ayame's mother's heirloom broach,_ Kagome assured herself, _those are definitely his eyes. _

They studied her just as fiercely and penetratingly as her brief memory of them last night, but the darkness had dampened their stunning color. Like looking squarely into the noonday sun, she had to squint her own eyes to perceive them correctly. Their lightness was normally reserved for the airy greens and blues belonging to white men, but the tawny shade was a pale imitation of the deep, walnut brown people of so many heritages passed to their children, especially Indians; the woodland color of her mother's eyes she could've had as well.

She couldn't even begin to speculate where he came by such alien features.

Glancing again across his stolid face, she tensed, realizing why his appearance was so arresting. War paint slashed in striking contrast against his precious metal palette, two mulberry red stripes highlighting the prominent bones of each dark cheek and a blueberry crescent moon sitting on the sky of his forehead, obscured by his hair like a cloudy night. All at once, there were too many colors to contend with, too much ethereality to handle. The full scope of him was like trying to take in the entire prairie landscape in one brief glance; it was impossible without becoming dizzy.

Feeling her sight tilt at a nauseating angle, Kagome dismissed his unblinking attention to digest her surroundings. Didn't she see the misty outline of a woman before she woke up completely? Hadn't she attended to her in kindness? Surely she didn't abandon Kagome to the whims of the _youkai_ man currently sizing her up for what was undoubtedly nefarious plans. She wouldn't just vanish, would she?

_I swear I heard a woman's voice,_ Kagome thought, _Where is she?_

She heaved in a full breath, turning her eyes left and right as panic simmered in her belly. There was no evidence another woman had been there, not even her mirage.

_Please don't say I was imagining things!_

Every tree looked indistinguishable from its neighbor and every brambled vine tangled together, blocking any escape route like a barbed hunter's trap. There was no trace of civilization, no sign of human help, just feral animals and suffocating wilderness.

Just _him_.

On instinct she reached around her shoulders for her white buffalo hide, wanting desperately to disappear under its comfort and wake up in her bed, relieved that it was all a nightmare, but she only found air.

_Oh no, _she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the moment to evaporate like every dream should, _no no no no! Where's my pelt? I couldn't have lost it! It protected me..._

When her fingers clawed her sleeves, coming up empty, Kagome never wanted to surrender to hysteria so much in her life. She couldn't lose that pelt; just the night before she'd vowed to take better care of it. As a gift from her father, it was the only security she could hold on to until he could protect her in the flesh. How was she supposed to stay strong now? Just a touch of its softness always cleared her head, sweeping away any anxiety with the fortified vision of her family's hearth fire. Now it was gone, all that hope, left somewhere in the woods like rotting game.

An animal nickered behind her, the guttural sound impatient, but she didn't have the courage to search for its source until the Indian's sight flicked to a spot behind her head. It was risky to chance a corroborating glance, as there was no telling what he would do with the opportunity, but common sense was always severely inhibited when under extreme duress, at least where she was concerned. She darted one quick look, then did a double take, eyeing a pinto stallion tied to a tree not far from the stream bank, the beast looking bored as it swatted its tail at flies lighting on leather saddlebags draped over its flank and dipped its head to nibble on some grass.

_Hmph._ She shot the horse an impetuous glare. _I'm glad somebody's feeling safe and calm. Stupid, selfish donkey._

She corralled her attention back to the man at her side. His gaze had settled its home upon her again, remaining intense and hypnotic. It held her more securely than any ropes ever could, and she wondered how many prisoners he'd captured with just one look alone. When it fell to a spot on her torso, she followed it down, startled to find a freshly cleansed wound. It was ugly and puckered, scabbed, inflamed and definitely needing stitches.

_This is from the wagon train attack. That means..._

"Am I your captive? What are you going to do with me?" She whispered hoarsely. He looked peeved at her comment, as if such an idea was ridiculously below him, and she couldn't help but feel she insulted him. The quick stab of guilt at his reaction brought her up short. Seriously, what else is she supposed to think? Here they were, probably miles away from her home by now, going God knows where, and she's bleeding all over her beautiful dress with not a legitimate doctor in sight.

"I'm bleeding!" She squealed. He stared at her with one dark brow unscrupulously arched as if she was daft for just now figuring this out.

"I need a doctor!" His face relaxed in comprehension, but the conviction in his eyes was relentless. He shook his head with a firm, echoing _'no'_ and lifted one of his strong hands with her beloved white buffalo pelt in its grasp.

"This belongs to me."

Now Kagome had seen honey before, on the Post Trader's shelves, in a lovely tin pot on her kitchen table every morning at breakfast, complete with the little metal comb so she could spread its sweetness over her toast, hell, it congealed to amber right in front of her in his astonishing eyes. But in that moment, she was convinced she was the first person in all of creation to _hear_ what honey sounded like. And really, she shouldn't have been surprised it would drizzle its golden tones from lips sculpted like his.

Kagome distinctly forgot to process exactly what it was he said.

"Oh. Alright."

Eyes narrowing, the pale-haired brave looked vaguely taken aback at her sudden acquiescence. With those lips thinning in a cautious glare, he pressed his advantage. "I will take it back to my village."

"Yeah?" she said distractedly. "Okay."

"With you inside."

Cognizance chose that moment to flick her between the eyes. "Sounds fine with...hey, wait a minute! I'm not going anywhere with you!"

He muttered something unintelligible, and no doubt insulting, under his breath.

An unbridled rage registered up her water-numbed limbs as she took stock of what he held. "Give that back to me, you thief!"

His expression climbed a cliff face, stony and eroded clean of any trace of emotion. If it wasn't for those damned eyes she'd be convinced he turned to marble. She took his immobility as a chance to snatch her pelt away, but as soon as she lunged he sprang back like an antelope, dangling it just out of her reach.

"I don't care what you think. That's not yours! My father gave it to me! Now give it back!" She attacked again and a searing pain ripped through her abdomen. Kagome groaned and doubled over in the creek, soaking her bodice to her skin.

The Indian looped an arm around her shoulders, lifted her out and sat her back down on dry land, holding her firm until she put her hands out to support herself.

"Please give me my pelt," she brattled pitifully, "Please just let me go."

He didn't speak, but she heard his answer in the way he ignored her and stood to walk back to his horse, where he folded her precious pelt neatly and sat it upon his saddle, then cleared and rearranged the provisions in his saddlebags to make ample room, tucking it carefully stood out like a bleached ox skull next to his stallion's dark desert hues, a forbidding reminder of the deadly command he employed the night before against his Indian brethren, who she just realized were no where to be found.

"Where are the other two?"

He secured the sparsely beaded flap on the saddlebag and turned around with another raised brow. Somehow she knew it would translate as an irritated _"Who?"._

Done with his games, she retorted with an expression full of _"Duh!"_, "The two who were after me. What did you do with them?"

She could see the subtle puff of his chest and the smug superiority in his gaze as he walked back to his place, that silent, male gloat of victory, and her stomach dropped so fast it could've drowned her in the shallow water.

"They will never be able to get you now." He was very sure of himself.

_Oh sweet Lord God Almighty. _She deduced in an instant._ He_ killed _them!_

Her mind ran circles around "_Will he do the same to me?". _A name cowered on her tongue, the perfect label for a monster like him, so aristocratically proud of his atrocity. Her eyes scanned his broad, toned body for scalps or other bloody proof of his conquest. With the air of a prince, he sat in perfect stillness and flexed his arms across his chest, telling her without words he was openly posturing for her perusal.

Such a pompous cur. Such a pompous..._savage...killer...murderer...oh God!_

The name fell out in a terrified wheeze.

"Sesshoumaru!"

His pride visibly deflated and he stared at her like she'd grown another head. _No, no, two heads would be bad. Then he'd have to kill you twice! Hell, I'd want to keep both heads! Yes and yes!_

"I need to go home!" she whined. The brave scowled again, but it wasn't quite as threatening as before. Kagome was convinced she was in the first stages of delirium, because she swore there was the slightest hint of sympathy in that frown, one drip from his frigid facade, and she couldn't help but notice how utterly handsome he was even with such a sour look on his face. What would this man look like smiling? And what the hell was wrong with her to be wondering something so asinine when she's bleeding half to death?

"You are injured."

"That's why I need to go home! I need a doctor! Just give me my pelt and let me go!"

"No." he challenged her firmly. She lagged in surrender, suddenly aware of how exhausted she was and unable to force any more retaliation out of her mouth. "We are closer to my village than we are to yours. I can heal you. Then I will _take_ your pelt and bring you back to the fort."

_Closer to...just how long have I slept? _She thought ruefully. _With a man I don't even know? An _Indian_ man, at that?_

The annoying little voice she effectively kept prisoner during the majority of her decisions - reason, some called it - peeped for her attention. Perhaps she should give him some credence, considering he'd already had days to kill her and she was very much alive, her frozen, waterlogged dress and washed wound proof enough of that.

Defeated, she bowed her head to curtail the evidence of tears. With a heavy sigh, the brave brought his hand up to her waist, touching her wound so tepidly she sucked in a feverish breath.

"It is almost washed." he murmured. "I will continue." She never would've expected him to warn her with the patience one often used for a frightened child. The oddity of the action jarred her focus and she swallowed her panic, at a loss of how to interpret this strange man.

When he finished, he stood promptly and drew her up alongside him. Pain exploded in her side and her unused legs gave out. She fell to her knees but he barely stumbled, his grip a snug harness under her arms. Kagome clamped her mouth shut, sealing a vagrant scream inside. She wasn't in the mind to debate why she was unwilling to cry in front of him; her pride was always contentious. As the pain subsided, her body immediately registered their closeness. Her nose twitched inches away from the flexed bicep hidden under his smooth buckskin shirt. She imagined a few veins growing more pronounced as he strained to keep her erect.

_Um..._ Her last shard of modesty went up in smoke. _I have clearly been hanging out with Jak too long. Damn dirty mind!_

Dread hid a beehive in her stomach._ I take it back, God. It's not long enough. Please... let me see the people I love again._

Almost in response to her thought, his hands flexed along her skin, reminding her why she'd had tripped down that rabbit hole to begin with. Sweat beaded along her hairline. He extended his arms, pushing her away to study the symptom. His inspection was so impersonal, it was obvious he wasn't nearly as affected by their proximity as she was. That was all the cold bath she needed. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she scooted away until his arms fell empty at his sides.

He didn't hesitate to widen the gap between them, turning on his heel to rummage through the saddlebags again. He quickly procured a tightly wrapped bundle that reeked so much of mint Kagome felt her nostrils clear from a few feet away. It was good to know she had no fear of catching a cold in his presence.

He turned back around and ordered her tersely. "Lie down–"

"Pardon?" Kagome interrupted him, quickly coming to the end of her patience. "Why did you force me up, then? Make up your mind!"

Apparently the feeling was mutual. He did not look amused. "Lie _down_," he stressed, "by the _fire_."

_Oh._ She felt meek as a mouse, but would never admit such a thing aloud. He'd only gloat over it, the rake. Calling him a plethora of creative names inside her head, she did as told and got comfortable on the fire-warmed earth.

It soon became clear why he needed her there. The light displayed every gruesome detail of her injury. Kagome quickly looked away and found him squatting not a foot to her right, his crotch perfectly aligned with her face.

"Kiya!" she squeaked, wishing she had a needle and thread to sew her eyes shut. "Do you understand the concept of advanced notice? Or personal space, for that matter?"

He unrolled a surgeon's worth of modern medical instruments neatly arranged in companion to tiny _parfleche_ containers and beaded herb pouches. She sneezed once, her nose having found the origin of the mint. The stiff, painted leather boxes were full of aromatic Indian salves.

To her horror, one of the instruments was a surgeon's needle and thread, the apparatus perfectly designed to stitch flesh. _Why does _that_ wish get granted?_ she lamented as he carefully prepped a long string. He stuck the needle in the bundle's rough leather and opened a particularly acrid container, extracting a suspect lump of snot green goo.

"Where exactly do you plan on putting that?"

He caked it over her wound, eyeing her blandly. Then he reached for the needle.

"Ho-_oh_ no!" She scooted along the ground. "No no no no. You're not sticking that thing anywhere near me!"

"I know what I do," he assured her. "Take my help or it will be your dead body that returns to the fort."

"How dare you threaten–"

"Infection does not show mercy."

"Oh, my mistake. But you, on the other hand, are a regular saint. Why don't I just call you reverend?"

"If that permits me to damn you to hell, go right ahead."

_"Well."_ She tutted, affronted to the point of silence. He reprimanded himself for not trying that method sooner.

"Do you normally carry a surgeon's kit when you hunt alone?" She looked baffled. "Are you so much a man you can sew up your own wounds?"

His challenging stare was rebuttal enough. He might as well have shown her the scars to prove it. She looked away, unable to deny it was shameful to question his endurance considering how far they'd come with her contributing little more than dead weight.

Sighing, she gave conciliation another go. "Can you tell me what's in that stuff you wiped on me?"

"Why?"

"Or talk about the economic impact of expanding immigration to the western United States territories, anything to keep me distracted, please?"

He chuffed, clearly not enthralled with her wit. "Yarrow stalk, ground to a paste and mixed with lemon mint and beeswax. It should numb the area slightly."

Kagome shuddered. "We'll find out, won't we?"

"Grip this." He wrapped a long, hardy leather cord around both her hands and pulled it taut. As an afterthought, he added softly. "Don't look."

She felt the needle's intrusion coil up her spine, pinching an uncomfortable pain through every nerve. She didn't even want to think how bad it would feel without the salve. He quickened his strokes, noticing her distress.

"Yarrow, huh," she gasped in between shallow breaths. "Achilles used that when he fought the Trojans, you know. Oh," she grimaced as the needle pierced a tender spot, "you probably don't. Sorry."

"And as an infant, his mother dipped his entire body except his heel in a Yarrow brew, making him nearly invincible...or so the legend goes."

The girl was right. Their conversation was as effective an anesthetic as his mother's old ointment mixture, or perhaps, if he could judge by her owl-eyes and slackened jaw, an even better one.

"Shocked a savage knows his Greek mythology?" He knotted the thread and clipped it with his knife. She didn't even notice.

"Would it be redundant of me to say yes?"

He regarded her speculatively and rolled up his medical supplies. She wondered what other surprising things he knew, then noticed he was already back up by his horse, returning the medicine bundle to its saddlebag.

"You're done?" she said in disbelief.

_What does it look like?_ His posture suggested, but in keeping with tradition he hadn't the decency to grant her a verbal answer.

She thumbed the finished product. "It looks good."

Not that the Indian needed her approval, of course. He went about his business like he hadn't just performed surgery in the middle of the woods, like he didn't literally hold her life in his hands. Kagome couldn't describe how worthless that suddenly made her feel. Was she even _human_ in his eyes?

She fought another wash of angry tears as he offered her a thin slice of pemmican jerky, but out of damaged pride she refused it. He left it on a flat stone nearby. "Stay put and rest. We leave when you're dry."

She wasn't inclined to be submissive, but the low-burning tinder was a welcome reprieve. They sat in silence as the brave made no more effort to speak. She bristled at the slight, but didn't want to ponder why. Isn't that the treatment she expected, or preferred, even? She had no desire to be this kidnapper's friend.

After the brief meal he rose to put away belongings she hadn't noticed until then: a kettle over the firepit, the bundle hiding his pemmican supply and another smelling of dried fruit, a pile of used bandages, and blankets..._two_ blankets, one of which was damp from an apparent attempt at washing but still sported a darker stain in its middle. Her stomach rolled when it occurred to her the stain was from her blood. It compelled her to double check her appearance, picking a few briars from her skirts before giving up. Everything a foot below her wound was so caked with mud she didn't even want to imagine what the rest of her looked like. She attempted to comb through her hair which had long since escaped its careful curls, but her fingers got stuck on the first pass. Her natural waves were a tangled mess. Disgusted, she swiped a finger across her cheek, expecting a thick layer of nature's detritus, but thankfully, it came back clean. Guess that "bath" in the creek was good for something. Trying to look casual, she sniffed her armpits and reflexively scrunched her nose, nearly gagging. Good, but not good enough.

Content to let her stink be his punishment, Kagome lay on her back and monitored the sun's slow progress through the sky. The few surrounding clouds moved with a brisk pace she knew the brave would've preferred to match. She opted for finding stories in their shapes. One the color and texture of milkweed floss walked up on massive paws, its husky body covered in what resembled fluffy fur. Jaws gaped toward the sun, reaching for it like a farm dog chased a ball.

_Kawaii, that's what it is. A big, white inu._

It controlled the skies with its bulk, and all the other clouds skipped around it, playing its game.

_You deserve a good name, puppy. Hmm...what to name you... Where'd you come from anyhow? Do you belong to anyone? I know my little brother always wanted a dog._

_Maybe you'd like to come home with me?_

Suddenly, Big White Inu turned and looked her square in the eyes. Wait a minute, wasn't that like a challenge in dog language or something? For her own safety, shouldn't she look away? Fluffy - because that's the name she decided upon in that very instant - didn't give her the chance to worry as he fell out of the sky and snuggled on top of her, licking her face and swapping dust for his slobber.

What warm-blooded girl wouldn't bask in such affection?

A gruff shove to her shoulder ruined the moment, and Fluffy bared his teeth at the intruder. A man loomed over them, but when Kagome looked up to give him a piece of her mind his face transposed over Fluffy's, so that the giant dog stared at her with the sentience of a human soul.

The vision rattled her with its intensity, and she bolted upright, smacking it away with a yell. Flapping her hands at air, she blinked her eyes wide open and darted them around the clearing, her breath chasing the last remnants of sleep. When had the shadows stretched so far across the ground?

"Was I dreaming?" She asked no one in particular.

The brave retorted as he brushed and fed his dutiful horse. "For about two hours."

"Did you shove me in my sleep?" She yawned irritably. "You made the white dog go away."

He pivoted in her direction, picking her apart with the piercing, indecipherable gaze of a wild animal. "What did you say?"

"Oh, I don't know," careful of her side, she stretched on her back, massaging a hand over her face, "I was making up stories with the clouds and I guess one found its way into my dream."

"Hn."

With one last rub along the horse's muzzle he walked over to stand her up, his stare more calculating, and _wary_, than she'd ever seen it. She followed him to the horse at a cautious distance. He hopped on its back in one fluid motion, and with a startled peep she felt him secure his hands under her arms and hoist her in front of him, lifting her like a feather and positioning her legs to straddle the horse in a very unladylike fashion, the way she secretly preferred to dash through the meadows by her farm. She blushed heatedly when his arms came around her to take control of the reins and his hard body curved against her smaller one. It might've been a sweeter shelter if their situation was different. A thoroughly annoying part of her refused to dismiss how hard it made her heart beat.

"Is there a reason we have to ride like this?" She absolutely despised the coy sigh in her voice.

He scoffed. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"Yes!"

"Good. Now be silent."

Kagome learned quickly he meant what he said, and once a law was decreed, he took its enforcement very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that she was certain his ability to engage in civil human chatter was trapped in some remote prison behind the pole up his ass. No matter how many times she made the slightest comment, or dared the simplest question, he tossed it aside with a snap to his horse's reins.

His stubborn silent treatment nearly went all the way till nightfall, which actually wasn't as long coming as Kagome expected it to be, but an hour into being forgotten she'd devised other means of amusing herself. They'd followed the creek through rolling hills and pungent glades, small clearings and short, jagged bluffs. The landscape was so pristine it was easily to forget why she was in it. It soothed her anger like the hot cup of tea she always shared with her mother on winter nights. They passed slopes that stretched for miles with little families of fragrant lodgepole pine and valleys that spread picnic blankets of budless wild bergamot. The tree-lined ridge that buttressed the stream for a few miles was just high enough for her to watch the clouds' low-slung shadows meander across the valley floor, resembling a translucent blot of ink spilled across the slender _washi_ tapestries that hung in her home.

"The land is really beautiful here," she murmured in awe.

She felt him shift behind her. He seemed oddly unsettled. "It used to be."

Kagome allowed herself a moment of shock that he'd actually answered, then pondered his cryptic words. "I can't imagine what paradise it must've been if you can't see its loveliness now." She had an inkling there was something more to what he meant and risked probing further. "What changed?"

Birds chirped the seconds away and she was convinced, albeit irritated, he was going to snub her for the millionth time. "That meadow." His low voice startled her. She followed his gesture to the right. "What do you see?"

"Green grass."

"Exactly."

She frowned. "I don't understand."

"Years ago, many buffalo grazed here. The meadow was nearly brown with their numbers. White hunters are destroying them."

"Oh," Kagome didn't know how to respond to that. She recalled that when Midoriko's people camped near Ft. Laramie most of their hides, tools and tepees were crafted from some part of the buffalo. In fact, aside from buckskin clothing, she couldn't remember much that wasn't buffalo. Its utility was woven into the fabric of their life. What would they do if the buffalo disappeared? Various scenarios transpired in her mind, none of them good, and it left her heart in conflict.

Relations were tenser than normal between them after that abstruse conversation, at least for awhile. His words put a blight on the scenery, and she could no longer find it a comforting diversion. It conjured memories of her Priestess and the ridicule she'd endured. How had Midoriko chosen that path over these elysian fields? What had she seen in Ft. Laramie to make it worth abandoning her home?

As darkness gradually encroached, it wiped away her sullen thoughts alongside the land's sunbathed beauty, and instead tucked fleeting, fearful apparitions in the corner of her sight no matter which way she looked. Apparently, since daylight had passed so quickly, she'd not only been out a few days, but a few and a _half_ days. It seemed her body was a lot more trusting of this man than her heart was, shutting down and content with his supposed protection. How quaint.

When they entered a cozy clearing, he parked the horse by another tree and dismounted, then helped her down. Her gunpowder nerves fired again as she slid against his flinty frame, but she wasn't about to let herself return down that futile route. She discharged from his hold as quickly as she could and planted her aching body on a patch of dry grass.

Scraping two stones together, he sparked a fire that leapt from another well-used pit, telling her in not so subtle language she was stuck there for the night. So he'd camped in this area before, eh? She wondered how many other helpless, beautiful, alluring damsels, not including herself of course, he'd trapped in this remote bastion of the Wyoming wilderness.

With nothing else to do, she watched him go through the motions of setting up camp and realized with a douse of humility he was doing much of it more for her benefit than his. Considering all the provisions she noticed him pack up that afternoon, he must've been dancing the same routine for awhile yet. Not that such acts would be rewarded now that she was conscious of them. What exactly did he expect to gain by performing considerate gestures for a girl knocked cold?

Then without warning he stalked over, pulled her to her feet and touched her without any notion of personal space or manners, just shoving his large calloused hands in intimate places they _should not be_.

"I'd have you not be so _familiar_ with me, sir."

With a firm frown boring down on her from a height she hadn't noted until just that perfectly inopportune moment, he jerked the bandages tied tight around her middle, ripping them in half noisily. She gasped incredulously as the cloth fell away, exposing a not-so-healthy expanse of skin.

"Perhaps you'd rather check your wound yourself."

"Perhaps?" she fumed. "Of _course_ I would!"

His stare flattened in rising irritation.

"Now you!" she ordered, "Turn around!"

When he decided he'd rather impersonate an immovable mountain, complete with an ice-capped peak, she decided it wasn't worth the struggle and swung around with her back to him to inspect his handiwork. Surprisingly, it held up well, the stitching nearly flawless in its execution. As she fumbled around in the darkening twilight, her fingers slipped and she smeared dirt across the cut. Its microscopic shrapnel stung viciously and she grit her teeth against the pain. She wasn't aware she'd made a noise until a tall shadow loomed over her, blocking the fresh moonlight floating through the leaves. Glancing up she saw the pale brave illuminated in the hazy glow, his hair outlined in shiny nickel and his eyes...those _eyes_...lit by their campfire like the oil lamp on her kitchen table.

She couldn't look away and didn't have the voice to protest when his hands sank their iron weight on her shoulders, spinning her slowly and guiding her back to the creek bank. He shoved a few sticks around with his toes, clearing a comfortable space and sitting her down. Then, with a primal grace, he resumed the actions she'd woken up to that afternoon as if they'd never left their original spot.

A strange thought occurred to her then, one more notch on a belt loop of the bizarre things she'd encountered in his presence. "How do you speak english so well?"

His hands stilled briefly, as if her question caught him off guard, and although he continued the feathered pass of his fingers dripping cool, clean water over her wound, he didn't reply for quite awhile.

Finally, he answered quietly. "My father taught me."

Suddenly shy, she blurted the first thing that came to mind. "He did a good job."

His hand stilled again, but when he answered she could hear the dissonant coupling of arrogance and, dare she think it, embarrassment in his deep voice. Too bad there was no indication of the latter in his reply. "When we get to my village, thank him yourself."

_So much for sympathy,_ she scowled. He stood up and left her there to stew while he retrieved the two wool blankets he always tied above the saddlebags for long trips. One was wholly hers now that her blood was smeared all over it. He nearly sighed. Waste of a damn good blanket, if you asked him.

"I'm going to wash up a bit." She called.

He tossed his blanket by the fire and sat down, chewing his pemmican jerky, dazing off as the flames danced and thoroughly ignoring her.

"So no peeking! You got that?"

He spared a unimpressed look in her direction, driving home the suggestion there wasn't anything worth seeing.

Well, if that wasn't a blow to her feminine pride. She knew it was irrational to feel insulted, but she was a woman, after all. She certainly didn't need her ego as bruised as her side, especially by such an uncouth cretin as him!

"Humphing" loudly, she struggled with the fastenings of her bodice, pulling it down just enough to expose her back, shoulders and the very tops of her breasts. It was awkward to reach around and splash water in the spots that needed it, and during a few attempts her limbs got as tangled as her hair, trapped in her sleeves at incongruent angles. It started to feel like someone was gleefully using her arms as darning needles. Grace was never Kagome's middle name, but really, couldn't the good Lord spare her some agility just this once instead of abusing her as human yarn?

Belatedly, she noticed the campsite had grown exceedingly quiet. The Indian was indeed a dull, humorless man, but did he really have to tread so_ invisibly_? Grumbling at how much effort it took to switch positions, she dared a look back at the fire.

And found him staring at her with that damned brow cocked patronizingly.

"I said not to look, you cad!"

He grunted, but actually listened, returning to his unhealthy fascination with the flames.

_That's right! Take that! _she whooped triumphantly inside, then wiggled around to her original position, slipped, and plunged backward in the water with a dog-whistle shriek.

She bolted upright, nearly leaping out of what felt like a bath of nails left to freeze in a blizzard-buried barn. Her hair was completely sodden now, for the second time that day. Oh well, at least she could use the opportunity to pick the tangles free. Best to look on the bright side in a hellish situation like this, right? Shivering violently, she spat a mouthful of water with a growl drumming through her teeth.

Feeling his gaze, she shot a warning look to the Indian, only to have her concentration evaporate in a heated blush.

He was staring at her again, looking so much like a hungry predator she couldn't decide whether to run or play 'possum. The firelight's shadows trailed his eyes as they meticulously dripped over her body. Apprehensive of what exactly he was staring at, she looked down, and came face to face with a cornucopia of cleavage.

"What were you saying about nothing to look at?!" she crowed, never mind that he'd never said such a thing aloud. Regardless, he proved her right, because that time he looked away much quicker and schooled his face in blatant disregard.

What the hell _had_ he been thinking? He cringed internally. That was the problem, he wasn't. He was a man, after all. He wasn't blind, even to shrill harpies with a penchant for accidents. Excuses be damned; any slip of control was unacceptable. He wasn't some immature buck who needed a dunk in a creek, much like the available one slinking under the moon's seductive light next to their campsite. He certainly wasn't as weak as his brother, who couldn't face the village girl named Bellflower without his nose bleeding all over his shirt. He'd stood against whole bands of battle-crazed warriors with more composure.

His muscles jerked restlessly, and as he listened to the white girl splashing like a newborn foal in the water, muttering colorful curses under her breath, he moved to ready their pallets for sleep. The material thumped with his sharp movements. Combined with the noise she was making, it was almost rhythmic.

With a weary groan, he heard her emerge and wring out her dress. "Kuso. I can't sleep in this." He could tell she hadn't been talking to him, but he threw her an extra shirt from his saddlebag anyway. She whispered a reluctant "thank you" and resumed the war to remove her many layers of clothing.

"Don't look _this time_ either."

_I wouldn't dream of it_, he said to himself, banking the fire fiercely before moving to her bedding. The girl aired her dress over a low branch and "humphed" again, reading his mind.

"Do you need help retying the bandages?" he snapped cooly, making it perfectly clear he wasn't offering.

"No, _thank you_." she spat venom, already unwinding the thin strip of fresh cloth he'd left out.

He finished folding her blanket in a makeshift pallet and threw back the cover layer, "Then hurry up and go to bed."

"I'm not sleeping over there with..." she sputtered, tugging down the oversized shirt that barely skimmed her knees, "with _you_! There's no telling what liberties you'll take!"

"Our _arrangements_," and he used the term loosely, "didn't bother you the last two nights."

"I didn't exactly have much of a choice!"

"Fine," he rolled his jaw, "the bears can have you, then."

A few seconds passed in blessed silence. He turned his back on her to climb in his own pallet and smirked in the shadows. _That _certainly did the trick. His demon of a little brother was actually right about a battle tactic for once.

It took every ounce of willpower not to chuckle dryly when he heard her gulp, "Bears?"

"And mountain cats, too. Sometimes coyote. Or wolves. Or snakes. Or venomous spiders..."

"Venomous _spiders_?!"

"Or all of them at once. Considering this is the time of night they hunt."

Although she never gave him a verbal answer, he didn't have to wait long for her to scuttle like said midnight dangers over to her bedding. He watched over his shoulder in vague fascination as she tested the cloth with her hands, then acquiesced and lay down, cocooning herself in its protection and promptly slipping into a light, breathy snore.

_About damn time_, he thought. Sunrise wasn't as far away as he was sure she'd hope it to be, and he wasn't going to wait around all morning for her to snivel and lolligag as if he'd forced her to trek across the entire Oregon Trail. Although he was seriously reconsidering his sanity at the time of this choice, he'd pledged his word, even if only to himself, that he'd see to her survival. He wasn't about to let her ruin his honorable reputation.

_Just a few more days,_ he kept telling himself, rocking his mind to sleep with the chant. In just a few more days, the white buffalo pelt would be where it belonged, and he could tell the annoying girl exactly where to _go_.

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Thank you to all my readers for your continued encouragement!!! I really appreciate the time you take to review, and all of your insightful comments. They mean the world to me!!!!

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The encyclopedia's small this time:

**Colonel Franklin F. Flint** was the real Ft. Laramie post commander in October, 1870. He was actually quite the looker for his day, which, considering the hairstyles, isn't saying much... (http: // www . generalsandbrevets . com/bf/bf2 . htm)

_**Parfleche**_ is a rigid rawhide container of varying sizes used by tribes to transport all sorts of goods. They were normally very elaborately painted. I'm kinda making up the medicinal use in this chapter. There's no evidence such _parfleche_ ointment boxes exist anywhere outside my whacked out imagination.

*This is not to be confused with a Medicine Bag, which is actually a very sacred, specifically designed purse, for lack of a better term, kept by men. Items placed in the Medicine Bag were usually found during his adolescent vision quest, so they were just as personal as they were spiritually powerful. I'm sure "Sess" will end up with one eventually.

_**Washi**_ is traditional japanese paper, made of various substances: rice, mulberry wood, etc. etc. It was mainly used for artwork, including wall hangings.


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